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Welcome to Classic Ghost Tales. In Nathaniel Hawthorne's 'Mosses from

an Old Manse,' we step into a world where the ordinary meets the

supernatural. Set in a mysterious, secluded mansion, the story

explores the intricate relationship between man, nature, and the

unknown. As we delve into Hawthorne’s haunting narrative, we’ll

uncover the secrets hidden within the walls of the Old Manse and the

eerie events that unfold. Join us as we embark on a journey through

time, where the boundary between reality and the supernatural blurs.

Chapter 1.

THE OLD MANSE.

The Author makes the Reader acquainted with his Abode.

Between two tall gate-posts of rough-hewn stone (the gate itself having

fallen from its hinges at some unknown epoch) we beheld the gray front

of the old parsonage, terminating the vista of an avenue of black-ash

trees. It was now a twelvemonth since the funeral procession of the

venerable clergyman, its last inhabitant, had turned from that gateway

towards the village burying-ground. The wheel-track leading to the

door, as well as the whole breadth of the avenue, was almost overgrown

with grass, affording dainty mouthfuls to two or three vagrant cows and

an old white horse who had his own living to pick up along the

roadside. The glimmering shadows that lay half asleep between the door

of the house and the public highway were a kind of spiritual medium,

seen through which the edifice had not quite the aspect of belonging to

the material world. Certainly it had little in common with those

ordinary abodes which stand so imminent upon the road that every

passer-by can thrust his head, as it were, into the domestic circle.

From these quiet windows the figures of passing travellers looked too

remote and dim to disturb the sense of privacy. In its near retirement

and accessible seclusion, it was the very spot for the residence of a

clergyman,—a man not estranged from human life, yet enveloped, in the

midst of it, with a veil woven of intermingled gloom and brightness. It

was worthy to have been one of the time-honored parsonages of England,

in which, through many generations, a succession of holy occupants pass

from youth to age, and bequeath each an inheritance of sanctity to

pervade the house and hover over it as with an atmosphere.

Nor, in truth, had the Old Manse ever been profaned by a lay occupant

until that memorable summer afternoon when I entered it as my home. A

priest had built it; a priest had succeeded to it; other priestly men

from time to time had dwelt in it; and children born in its chambers

had grown up to assume the priestly character. It was awful to reflect

how many sermons must have been written there. The latest inhabitant

alone—he by whose translation to paradise the dwelling was left

vacant—had penned nearly three thousand discourses, besides the better,

if not the greater, number that gushed living from his lips.

How often,

no doubt, had he paced to and fro along the avenue, attuning his

meditations to the sighs and gentle murmurs and deep and solemn peals

of the wind among the lofty tops of the trees! In that variety of

natural utterances he could find something accordant with every passage

of his sermon, were it of tenderness or reverential fear. The boughs

over my head seemed shadowy with solemn thoughts, as well as with

rustling leaves. I took shame to myself for having been so long a

writer of idle stories, and ventured to hope that wisdom would descend

upon me with the falling leaves of the avenue, and that I should light

upon an intellectual treasure in the Old Manse well worth those hoards

of long-hidden gold which people seek for in moss-grown houses.

Profound treatises of morality; a layman’s unprofessional, and

therefore unprejudiced, views of religion; histories (such as Bancroft

might have written had he taken up his abode here, as he once purposed)

bright with picture, gleaming over a depth of philosophic

thought,—these were the works that might fitly have flowed from such a

retirement. In the humblest event, I resolved at least to achieve a

novel that should evolve some deep lesson, and should possess physical

substance enough to stand alone.

In furtherance of my design, and as if to leave me no pretext for not

fulfilling it, there was in the rear of the house the most delightful

little nook of a study that ever afforded its snug seclusion to a

scholar. It was here that Emerson wrote Nature; for he was then an

inhabitant of the Manse, and used to watch the Assyrian dawn and

Paphian sunset and moonrise from the summit of our eastern hill. When I

first saw the room, its walls were blackened with the smoke of

unnumbered years, and made still blacker by the grim prints of Puritan

ministers that hung around. These worthies looked strangely like bad

angels, or at least like men who had wrestled so continually and so

sternly with the Devil that somewhat of his sooty fierceness had been

imparted to their own visages. They had all vanished now; a cheerful

coat of paint and golden-tinted paper-hangings lighted up the small

apartment; while the shadow of a willow-tree that swept against the

overhanging eaves atempered the cheery western sunshine. In place of

the grim prints there was the sweet and lovely head of one of Raphael’s

Madonnas, and two pleasant little pictures of the Lake of Como. The

only other decorations were a purple vase of flowers, always fresh, and

a bronze one containing graceful ferns.

My books (few, and by no means

choice; for they were chiefly such waifs as chance had thrown in my

way) stood in order about the room, seldom to be disturbed.

The study had three windows, set with little, old-fashioned panes of

glass, each with a crack across it. The two on the western side looked,

or rather peeped, between the willow branches, down into the orchard,

with glimpses of the river through the trees. The third, facing

northward, commanded a broader view of the river, at a spot where its

hitherto obscure waters gleam forth into the light of history. It was

at this window that the clergyman who then dwelt in the Manse stood

watching the outbreak of a long and deadly struggle between two

nations; he saw the irregular array of his parishioners on the farther

side of the river, and the glittering line of the British on the hither

bank. He awaited, in an agony of suspense, the rattle of the musketry.

It came; and there needed but a gentle wind to sweep the battle-smoke

around this quiet house.

Perhaps the reader, whom I cannot help considering as my guest in the

Old Manse, and entitled to all courtesy in the way of

sight-showing,—perhaps he will choose to take a nearer view of the

memorable spot. We stand now on the river’s brink. It may well be

called the Concord,—the river of peace and quietness; for it is

certainly the most unexcitable and sluggish stream that ever loitered

imperceptibly towards its eternity,—the sea. Positively I had lived

three weeks beside it before it grew quite clear to my perception which

way the current flowed. It never has a vivacious aspect, except when a

northwestern breeze is vexing its surface on a sunshiny day. From the

incurable indolence of its nature, the stream is happily incapable of

becoming the slave of human ingenuity, as is the fate of so many a

wild, free mountain torrent. While all things else are compelled to

subserve some useful purpose, it idles its sluggish life away in lazy

liberty, without turning a solitary spindle or affording even

water-power enough to grind the corn that grows upon its banks. The

torpor of its movement allows it nowhere a bright, pebbly shore, nor so

much as a narrow strip of glistening sand, in any part of its course.

It slumbers between broad prairies, kissing the long meadow grass, and

bathes the overhanging boughs of elder-bushes and willows, or the roots

of elms and ash-trees and clumps of maples.

Flags and rushes grow along

its plashy shore; the yellow water-lily spreads its broad, flat leaves

on the margin; and the fragrant white pond-lily abounds, generally

selecting a position just so far from the river’s brink that it cannot

be grasped save at the hazard of plunging in.

It is a marvel whence this perfect flower derives its loveliness and

perfume, springing as it does from the black mud over which the river

sleeps, and where lurk the slimy eel, and speckled frog, and the

mud-turtle, whom continual washing cannot cleanse. It is the very same

black mud out of which the yellow lily sucks its obscene life and

noisome odor. Thus we see, too, in the world that some persons

assimilate only what is ugly and evil from the same moral circumstances

which supply good and beautiful results—the fragrance of celestial

flowers—to the daily life of others.

The reader must not, from any testimony of mine, contract a dislike

towards our slumberous stream. In the light of a calm and golden sunset

it becomes lovely beyond expression; the more lovely for the quietude

that so well accords with the hour, when even the wind, after

blustering all day long, usually hushes itself to rest. Each tree and

rock and every blade of grass is distinctly imaged, and, however

unsightly in reality, assumes ideal beauty in the reflection. The

minutest things of earth and the broad aspect of the firmament are

pictured equally without effort and with the same felicity of success.

All the sky glows downward at our feet; the rich clouds float through

the unruffled bosom of the stream like heavenly thoughts through a

peaceful heart. We will not, then, malign our river as gross and impure

while it can glorify itself with so adequate a picture of the heaven

that broods above it; or, if we remember its tawny hue and the

muddiness of its bed, let it be a symbol that the earthiest human soul

has an infinite spiritual capacity and may contain the better world

within its depths. But, indeed, the same lesson might be drawn out of

any mud-puddle in the streets of a city; and, being taught us

everywhere, it must be true.

Come, we have pursued a somewhat devious track in our walk to the

battle-ground. Here we are, at the point where the river was crossed by

the old bridge, the possession of which was the immediate object of the

contest. On the hither side grow two or three elms, throwing a wide

circumference of shade, but which must have been planted at some period

within the threescore years and ten that have passed since the

battle-day.

On the farther shore, overhung by a clump of elder-bushes,

we discern the stone abutment of the bridge. Looking down into the

river, I once discovered some heavy fragments of the timbers, all green

with half a century’s growth of water-moss; for during that length of

time the tramp of horses and human footsteps have ceased along this

ancient highway. The stream has here about the breadth of twenty

strokes of a swimmer’s arm,—a space not too wide when the bullets were

whistling across. Old people who dwell hereabouts will point out, the

very spots on the western bank where our countrymen fell down and died;

and on this side of the river an obelisk of granite has grown up from

the soil that was fertilized with British blood. The monument, not more

than twenty feet in height, is such as it befitted the inhabitants of a

village to erect in illustration of a matter of local interest rather

than what was suitable to commemorate an epoch of national history.

Still, by the fathers of the village this famous deed was done; and

their descendants might rightfully claim the privilege of building a

memorial.

A humbler token of the fight, yet a more interesting one than the

granite obelisk, may be seen close under the stone wall which separates

the battle-ground from the precincts of the parsonage. It is the

grave,—marked by a small, mossgrown fragment of stone at the head and

another at the foot,—the grave of two British soldiers who were slain

in the skirmish, and have ever since slept peacefully where Zechariah

Brown and Thomas Davis buried them. Soon was their warfare ended; a

weary night-march from Boston, a rattling volley of musketry across the

river, and then these many years of rest. In the long procession of

slain invaders who passed into eternity from the battle-fields of the

Revolution, these two nameless soldiers led the way.

Lowell, the poet, as we were once standing over this grave, told me a

tradition in reference to one of the inhabitants below. The story has

something deeply impressive, though its circumstances cannot altogether

be reconciled with probability. A youth in the service of the clergyman

happened to be chopping wood, that April morning, at the back door of

the Manse; and when the noise of battle rang from side to side of the

bridge, he hastened across the intervening field to see what might be

going forward. It is rather strange, by the way, that this lad should

have been so diligently at work when the whole population of town and

country were startled out of their customary business by the advance of

the British troops.

Be that as it might, the tradition, says that the

lad now left his task and hurried to the battle-field with the axe

still in his hand. The British had by this time retreated; the

Americans were in pursuit; and the late scene of strife was thus

deserted by both parties. Two soldiers lay on the ground,—one was a

corpse; but, as the young New-Englander drew nigh, the other Briton

raised himself painfully upon his hands and knees and gave a ghastly

stare into his face. The boy,—it must have been a nervous impulse,

without purpose, without thought, and betokening a sensitive and

impressible nature rather than a hardened one,—the boy uplifted his axe

and dealt the wounded soldier a fierce and fatal blow upon the head.

I could wish that the grave might be opened; for I would fain know

whether either of the skeleton soldiers has the mark of an axe in his

skull. The story comes home to me like truth. Oftentimes, as an

intellectual and moral exercise, I have sought to follow that poor

youth through his subsequent career and observe how his soul was

tortured by the blood-stain, contracted as it had been before the long

custom of war had robbed human life of its sanctity and while it still

seemed murderous to slay a brother man. This one circumstance has borne

more fruit for me than all that history tells us of the fight.

Many strangers come in the summer-time to view the battle-ground. For

my own part, I have never found my imagination much excited by this or

any other scene of historic celebrity; nor would the placid margin of

the river have lost any of its charm for me, had men never fought and

died there. There is a wilder interest in the tract of land-perhaps a

hundred yards in breadth—which extends between the battle-field and the

northern face of our Old Manse, with its contiguous avenue and orchard.

Here, in some unknown age, before the white man came, stood an Indian

village, convenient to the river, whence its inhabitants must have

drawn so large a part of their substance. The site is identified by the

spear and arrow-heads, the chisels, and other implements of war, labor,

and the chase, which the plough turns up from the soil. You see a

splinter of stone, half hidden beneath a sod; it looks like nothing

worthy of note; but, if you have faith enough to pick it up, behold a

relic! Thoreau, who has a strange faculty of finding what the Indians

have left behind them, first set me on the search; and I afterwards

enriched myself with some very perfect specimens, so rudely wrought

that it seemed almost as if chance had fashioned them.

Their great

charm consists in this rudeness and in the individuality of each

article, so different from the productions of civilized machinery,

which shapes everything on one pattern. There is exquisite delight,

too, in picking up for one’s self an arrow-head that was dropped

centuries ago and has never been handled since, and which we thus

receive directly from the hand of the red hunter, who purposed to shoot

it at his game or at an enemy. Such an incident builds up again the

Indian village and its encircling forest, and recalls to life the

painted chiefs and warriors, the squaws at their household toil, and

the children sporting among the wigwams, while the little wind-rocked

pappose swings from the branch of a tree. It can hardly be told whether

it is a joy or a pain, after such a momentary vision, to gaze around in

the broad daylight of reality and see stone fences, white houses,

potato-fields, and men doggedly hoeing in their shirt-sleeves and

homespun pantaloons. But this is nonsense. The Old Manse is better than

a thousand wigwams.

The Old Manse! We had almost forgotten it, but will return thither

through the orchard. This was set out by the last clergyman, in the

decline of his life, when the neighbors laughed at the hoary-headed man

for planting trees from which he could have no prospect of gathering

fruit. Even had that been the case, there was only so much the better

motive for planting them, in the pure and unselfish hope of benefiting

his successors,—an end so seldom achieved by more ambitious efforts.

But the old minister, before reaching his patriarchal age of ninety,

ate the apples from this orchard during many years, and added silver

and gold to his annual stipend by disposing of the superfluity. It is

pleasant to think of him walking among the trees in the quiet

afternoons of early autumn and picking up here and there a windfall,

while he observes how heavily the branches are weighed down, and

computes the number of empty flour-barrels that will be filled by their

burden. He loved each tree, doubtless, as if it had been his own child.

An orchard has a relation to mankind, and readily connects itself with

matters of the heart. The trees possess a domestic character; they have

lost the wild nature of their forest kindred, and have grown humanized

by receiving the care of man as well as by contributing to his wants.

There, is so much individuality of character, too, among apple trees,

that it gives them all additional claim to be the objects of human

interest.

One is harsh and crabbed in its manifestations; another gives

us fruit as mild as charity. One is churlish and illiberal, evidently

grudging the few apples that it bears; another exhausts itself in

free-hearted benevolence. The variety of grotesque shapes into which

apple, trees contort themselves has its effect on those who get

acquainted with them: they stretch out their crooked branches, and take

such hold of the imagination, that we remember them as humorists and

odd fellows. And what is more melancholy than the old apple-trees that

linger about the spot where once stood a homestead, but where there is

now only a ruined chimney rising out of a grassy and weed-grown cellar?

They offer their fruit to every wayfarer,—apples that are bitter sweet

with the moral of Time’s vicissitude.

I have met with no other such pleasant trouble in the world as that of

finding myself, with only the two or three mouths which it was my

privilege to feed, the sole inheritor of the old clergyman’s wealth of

fruits. Throughout the summer there were cherries and currants; and

then came Autumn, with his immense burden of apples, dropping them

continually from his over-laden shoulders as he trudged along. In the

stillest afternoon, if I listened, the thump of a great apple was

audible, falling without a breath of wind, from the mere necessity of

perfect ripeness. And, besides, there were pear-trees, that flung down

bushels upon bushels of heavy pears; and peach-trees, which, in a good

year, tormented me with peaches, neither to be eaten nor kept, nor,

without labor and perplexity, to be given away. The idea of an infinite

generosity and exhaustless bounty on the part of our Mother Nature was

well worth obtaining through such cares as these. That feeling can be

enjoyed in perfection only by the natives of summer islands, where the

bread-fruit, the cocoa, the palm, and the orange grow spontaneously and

hold forth the ever-ready meal; but likewise almost as well by a man

long habituated to city life, who plunges into such a solitude as that

of the Old Manse, where he plucks the fruit of trees that he did not

plant, and which therefore, to my heterodox taste, bear the closest

resemblance to those that grew in Eden. It has been an apothegm these

five thousand years, that toil sweetens the bread it earns. For my part

(speaking from hard experience, acquired while belaboring the rugged

furrows of Brook Farm), I relish best the free gifts of Providence.

Not that it can be disputed that the light toil requisite to cultivate

a moderately sized garden imparts such zest to kitchen vegetables as is

never found in those of the market-gardener. Childless men, if they

would know something of the bliss of paternity, should plant a seed,—be

it squash, bean, Indian corn, or perhaps a mere flower or worthless

weed,—should plant it with their own hands, and nurse it from infancy

to maturity altogether by their own care. If there be not too many of

them, each individual plant becomes an object of separate interest. My

garden, that skirted the avenue of the Manse, was of precisely the

right extent. An hour or two of morning labor was all that it required.

But I used to visit and revisit it a dozen times a day, and stand in

deep contemplation over my vegetable progeny with a love that nobody

could share or conceive of who had never taken part in the process of

creation. It was one of the most bewitching sights in the world to

observe a hill of beans thrusting aside the soil, or a row of early

peas just peeping forth sufficiently to trace a line of delicate green.

Later in the season the humming-birds were attracted by the blossoms of

a peculiar variety of bean; and they were a joy to me, those little

spiritual visitants, for deigning to sip airy food out of my

nectar-cups. Multitudes of bees used to bury themselves in the yellow

blossoms of the summer-squashes. This, too, was a deep satisfaction;

although, when they had laden themselves with sweets, they flew away to

some unknown hive, which would give back nothing in requital of what my

garden had contributed. But I was glad thus to fling a benefaction upon

the passing breeze with the certainty that somebody must profit by it

and that there would be a little more honey in the world to allay the

sourness and bitterness which mankind is always complaining of. Yes,

indeed; my life was the sweeter for that honey.

Speaking of summer-squashes, I must say a word of their beautiful and

varied forms. They presented an endless diversity of urns and vases,

shallow or deep, scalloped or plain, moulded in patterns which a

sculptor would do well to copy, since Art has never invented anything

more graceful. A hundred squashes in the garden were worth, in my eyes

at least, of being rendered indestructible in marble.

If ever

Providence (but I know it never will) should assign me a superfluity of

gold, part of it shall be expended for a service of plate, or most

delicate porcelain, to be wrought into the shapes of summer-squashes

gathered from vines which I will plant with my own hands. As dishes for

containing vegetables, they would be peculiarly appropriate.

But not merely the squeamish love of the beautiful was gratified by my

toil in the kitchen-garden. There was a hearty enjoyment, likewise, in

observing the growth of the crook-necked winter-squashes from the first

little bulb, with the withered blossom adhering to it, until they lay

strewn upon the soil, big, round fellows, hiding their heads beneath

the leaves, but turning up their great yellow rotundities to the

noontide sun. Gazing at them, I felt that by my agency something worth

living for had been done. A new substance was born into the world. They

were real and tangible existences, which the mind could seize hold of

and rejoice in. A cabbage, too,—especially the early Dutch cabbage,

which swells to a monstrous circumference, until its ambitious heart

often bursts asunder,—is a matter to be proud of when we can claim a

share with the earth and sky in producing it. But, after all, the

hugest pleasure is reserved until these vegetable children of ours are

smoking on the table, and we, like Saturn, make a meal of them.

What with the river, the battle-field, the orchard, and the garden, the

reader begins to despair of finding his way back into the Old Manse.

But, in agreeable weather, it is the truest hospitality to keep him out

of doors. I never grew quite acquainted with my habitation till a long

spell of sulky rain had confined me beneath its roof. There could not

be a more sombre aspect of external nature than as then seen from the

windows of my study. The great willow-tree had caught and retained

among its leaves a whole cataract of water, to be shaken down at

intervals by the frequent gusts of wind. All day long, and for a week

together, the rain was drip-drip-dripping and splash-splash-splashing

from the eaves and bubbling and foaming into the tubs beneath the

spouts. The old, unpainted shingles of the house and outbuildings were

black with moisture; and the mosses of ancient growth upon the walls

looked green and fresh, as if they were the newest things and

afterthought of Time.

The usually mirrored surface of the river was

blurred by an infinity of raindrops; the whole landscape had a

completely water-soaked appearance, conveying the impression that the

earth was wet through like a sponge; while the summit of a wooded hill,

about a mile distant, was enveloped in a dense mist, where the demon of

the tempest seemed to have his abiding-place and to be plotting still

direr inclemencies.

Nature has no kindness, no hospitality, during a rain. In the fiercest

beat of sunny days she retains a secret mercy, and welcomes the

wayfarer to shady nooks of the woods whither the sun cannot penetrate;

but she provides no shelter against her storms. It makes us shiver to

think of those deep, umbrageous recesses, those overshadowing banks,

where we found such enjoyment during the sultry afternoons. Not a twig

of foliage there but would dash a little shower into our faces. Looking

reproachfully towards the impenetrable sky,—if sky there be above that

dismal uniformity of cloud,—we are apt to murmur against the whole

system of the universe, since it involves the extinction of so many

summer days in so short a life by the hissing and spluttering rain. In

such spells of weather,—and it is to be supposed such weather

came,—Eve’s bower in paradise must have been but a cheerless and aguish

kind of shelter, nowise comparable to the old parsonage, which had

resources of its own to beguile the week’s imprisonment. The idea of

sleeping on a couch of wet roses!

Happy the man who in a rainy day can betake himself to a huge garret,

stored, like that of the Manse, with lumber that each generation has

left behind it from a period before the Revolution. Our garret was an

arched hall, dimly illuminated through small and dusty windows; it was

but a twilight at the best; and there were nooks, or rather caverns, of

deep obscurity, the secrets of which I never learned, being too

reverent of their dust and cobwebs. The beams and rafters, roughly hewn

and with strips of bark still on them, and the rude masonry of the

chimneys, made the garret look wild and uncivilized, an aspect unlike

what was seen elsewhere in the quiet and decorous old house. But on one

side there was a little whitewashed apartment, which bore the

traditionary title of the Saint’s Chamber, because holy men in their

youth had slept, and studied, and prayed there. With its elevated

retirement, its one window, its small fireplace, and its closet

convenient for an oratory, it was the very spot where a young man might

inspire himself with solemn enthusiasm and cherish saintly dreams.

The

occupants, at various epochs, had left brief records and ejaculations

inscribed upon the walls. There, too, hung a tattered and shrivelled

roll of canvas, which on inspection proved to be the forcibly wrought

picture of a clergyman, in wig, band, and gown, holding a Bible in his

hand. As I turned his face towards the light, he eyed me with an air of

authority such as men of his profession seldom assume in our days. The

original had been pastor of the parish more than a century ago, a

friend of Whitefield, and almost his equal in fervid eloquence. I bowed

before the effigy of the dignified divine, and felt as if I had now met

face to face with the ghost by whom, as there was reason to apprehend,

the Manse was haunted.

Houses of any antiquity in New England are so invariably possessed with

spirits that the matter seems hardly worth alluding to. Our ghost used

to heave deep sighs in a particular corner of the parlor, and sometimes

rustled paper, as if he were turning over a sermon in the long upper

entry,—where nevertheless he was invisible, in spite of the bright

moonshine that fell through the eastern window. Not improbably he

wished me to edit and publish a selection from a chest full of

manuscript discourses that stood in the garret. Once, while Hillard and

other friends sat talking with us in the twilight, there came a

rustling noise as of a minister’s silk gown, sweeping through the very

midst of the company, so closely as almost to brush against the chairs.

Still there was nothing visible. A yet stranger business was that of a

ghostly servant-maid, who used to be heard in the kitchen at deepest

midnight, grinding coffee, cooking, ironing,—performing, in short, all

kinds of domestic labor,—although no traces of anything accomplished

could be detected the next morning. Some neglected duty of her

servitude, some ill-starched ministerial band, disturbed the poor

damsel in her grave and kept her at work without any wages.

But to return from this digression. A part of my predecessor’s library

was stored in the garret,—no unfit receptacle indeed for such dreary

trash as comprised the greater number of volumes. The old books would

have been worth nothing at an auction. In this venerable garret,

however, they possessed an interest, quite apart from their literary

value, as heirlooms, many of which had been transmitted down through a

series of consecrated hands from the days of the mighty Puritan

divines.

Autographs of famous names were to be seen in faded ink on

some of their fly-leaves; and there were marginal observations or

interpolated pages closely covered with manuscript in illegible

shorthand, perhaps concealing matter of profound truth and wisdom. The

world will never be the better for it. A few of the books were Latin

folios, written by Catholic authors; others demolished Papistry, as

with a sledge-hammer, in plain English. A dissertation on the Book of

Job—which only Job himself could have had patience to read—filled at

least a score of small, thick-set quartos, at the rate of two or three

volumes to a chapter. Then there was a vast folio body of divinity,—too

corpulent a body, it might be feared, to comprehend the spiritual

element of religion. Volumes of this form dated back two hundred years

or more, and were generally bound in black leather, exhibiting

precisely such an appearance as we should attribute to books of

enchantment. Others equally antique were of a size proper to be carried

in the large waistcoat pockets of old times,—diminutive, but as black

as their bulkier brethren, and abundantly interfused with Greek and

Latin quotations. These little old volumes impressed me as if they had

been intended for very large ones, but had been unfortunately blighted

at an early stage of their growth.

The rain pattered upon the roof and the sky gloomed through the dusty

garret-windows while I burrowed among these venerable books in search

of any living thought which should burn like a coal of fire or glow

like an inextinguishable gem beneath the dead trumpery that had long

hidden it. But I found no such treasure; all was dead alike; and I

could not but muse deeply and wonderingly upon the humiliating fact

that the works of man’s intellect decay like those of his hands.

Thought grows mouldy. What was good and nourishing food for the spirits

of one generation affords no sustenance for the next. Books of

religion, however, cannot be considered a fair test of the enduring and

vivacious properties of human thought, because such books so seldom

really touch upon their ostensible subject, and have, therefore, so

little business to be written at all. So long as an unlettered soul can

attain to saving grace there would seem to be no deadly error in

holding theological libraries to be accumulations of, for the most

part, stupendous impertinence.

Many of the books had accrued in the latter years of the last

clergyman’s lifetime.

These threatened to be of even less interest than

the elder works a century hence to any curious inquirer who should then

rummage then as I was doing now. Volumes of the Liberal Preacher and

Christian Examiner, occasional sermons, controversial pamphlets,

tracts, and other productions of a like fugitive nature, took the place

of the thick and heavy volumes of past time. In a physical point of

view, there was much the same difference as between a feather and a

lump of lead; but, intellectually regarded, the specific gravity of old

and new was about upon a par. Both also were alike frigid. The elder

books nevertheless seemed to have been earnestly written, and might be

conceived to have possessed warmth at some former period; although,

with the lapse of time, the heated masses had cooled down even to the

freezing-point. The frigidity of the modern productions, on the other

hand, was characteristic and inherent, and evidently had little to do

with the writer’s qualities of mind and heart. In fine, of this whole

dusty heap of literature I tossed aside all the sacred part, and felt

myself none the less a Christian for eschewing it. There appeared no

hope of either mounting to the better world on a Gothic staircase of

ancient folios or of flying thither on the wings of a modern tract.

Nothing, strange to say, retained any sap except what had been written

for the passing day and year, without the remotest pretension or idea

of permanence. There were a few old newspapers, and still older

almanacs, which reproduced to my mental eye the epochs when they had

issued from the press with a distinctness that was altogether

unaccountable. It was as if I had found bits of magic looking-glass

among the books with the images of a vanished century in them. I turned

my eyes towards the tattered picture above mentioned, and asked of the

austere divine wherefore it was that he and his brethren, after the

most painful rummaging and groping into their minds, had been able to

produce nothing half so real as these newspaper scribblers and

almanac-makers had thrown off in the effervescence of a moment. The

portrait responded not; so I sought an answer for myself. It is the age

itself that writes newspapers and almanacs, which therefore have a

distinct purpose and meaning at the time, and a kind of intelligible

truth for all times; whereas most other works—being written by men who,

in the very act, set themselves apart from their age—are likely to

possess little significance when new, and none at all when old.

Genius,

indeed, melts many ages into one, and thus effects something permanent,

yet still with a similarity of office to that of the more ephemeral

writer. A work of genius is but the newspaper of a century, or

perchance of a hundred centuries.

Lightly as I have spoken of these old books, there yet lingers with me

a superstitious reverence for literature of all kinds. A bound volume

has a charm in my eyes similar to what scraps of manuscript possess for

the good Mussulman. He imagines that those wind-wafted records are

perhaps hallowed by some sacred verse; and I, that every new book or

antique one may contain the “open sesame,”—the spell to disclose

treasures hidden in some unsuspected cave of Truth. Thus it was not

without sadness that I turned away from the library of the Old Manse.

Blessed was the sunshine when it came again at the close of another

stormy day, beaming from the edge of the western horizon; while the

massive firmament of clouds threw down all the gloom it could, but

served only to kindle the golden light into a more brilliant glow by

the strongly contrasted shadows. Heaven smiled at the earth, so long

unseen, from beneath its heavy eyelid. To-morrow for the hill-tops and

the woodpaths.

Or it might be that Ellery Charming came up the avenue to join me in a

fishing excursion on the river. Strange and happy times were those when

we cast aside all irksome forms and strait-laced habitudes and

delivered ourselves up to the free air, to live like the Indians or any

less conventional race during one bright semicircle of the sun. Rowing

our boat against the current, between wide meadows, we turned aside

into the Assabeth. A more lovely stream than this, for a mile above its

junction with the Concord, has never flowed on earth, nowhere, indeed,

except to lave the interior regions of a poet’s imagination. It is

sheltered from the breeze by woods and a hillside; so that elsewhere

there might be a hurricane, and here scarcely a ripple across the

shaded water. The current lingers along so gently that the mere force

of the boatman’s will seems sufficient to propel his craft against it.

It comes flowing softly through the midmost privacy and deepest heart

of a wood which whispers it to be quiet; while the stream whispers back

again from its sedgy borders, as if river and wood were hushing one

another to sleep. Yes; the river sleeps along its course and dreams of

the sky and of the clustering foliage, amid which fall showers of

broken sunlight, imparting specks of vivid cheerfulness, in contrast

with the quiet depth of the prevailing tint.

Of all this scene, the

slumbering river has a dream-picture in its bosom. Which, after all,

was the most real,—the picture, or the original?—the objects palpable

to our grosser senses, or their apotheosis in the stream beneath?

Surely the disembodied images stand in closer relation to the soul. But

both the original and the reflection had here an ideal charm; and, had

it been a thought more wild, I could have fancied that this river had

strayed forth out of the rich scenery of my companion’s inner world;

only the vegetation along its banks should then have had an Oriental

character.

Gentle and unobtrusive as the river is, yet the tranquil woods seem

hardly satisfied to allow it passage. The trees are rooted on the very

verge of the water, and dip their pendent branches into it. At one spot

there is a lofty bank, on the slope of which grow some hemlocks,

declining across the stream with outstretched arms, as if resolute to

take the plunge. In other places the banks are almost on a level with

the water; so that the quiet congregation of trees set their feet in

the flood, and are Fringed with foliage down to the surface.

Cardinal-flowers kindle their spiral flames and illuminate the dark

nooks among the shrubbery. The pond-lily grows abundantly along the

margin,—that delicious flower which, as Thoreau tells me, opens its

virgin bosom to the first sunlight and perfects its being through the

magic of that genial kiss. He has beheld beds of them unfolding in due

succession as the sunrise stole gradually from flower to flower,—a

sight not to be hoped for unless when a poet adjusts his inward eye to

a proper focus with the outward organ. Grapevines here and there twine

themselves around shrub and tree and hang their clusters over the water

within reach of the boatman’s hand. Oftentimes they unite two trees of

alien race in an inextricable twine, marrying the hemlock and the maple

against their will and enriching them with a purple offspring of which

neither is the parent. One of these ambitious parasites has climbed

into the upper branches of a tall white-pine, and is still ascending

from bough to bough, unsatisfied till it shall crown the tree’s airy

summit with a wreath of its broad foliage and a cluster of its grapes.

The winding course of the stream continually shut out the scene behind

us and revealed as calm and lovely a one before. We glided from depth

to depth, and breathed new seclusion at every turn. The shy kingfisher

flew from the withered branch close at hand to another at a distance,

uttering a shrill cry of anger or alarm.

Ducks that had been floating

there since the preceding eve were startled at our approach and skimmed

along the glassy river, breaking its dark surface with a bright streak.

The pickerel leaped from among the lilypads. The turtle, sunning itself

upon a rock or at the root of a tree, slid suddenly into the water with

a plunge. The painted Indian who paddled his canoe along the Assabeth

three hundred years ago could hardly have seen a wilder gentleness

displayed upon its banks and reflected in its bosom than we did. Nor

could the same Indian have prepared his noontide meal with more

simplicity. We drew up our skiff at some point where the overarching

shade formed a natural bower, and there kindled a fire with the pine

cones and decayed branches that lay strewn plentifully around. Soon the

smoke ascended among the trees, impregnated with a savory incense, not

heavy, dull, and surfeiting, like the steam of cookery within doors,

but sprightly and piquant. The smell of our feast was akin to the

woodland odors with which it mingled: there was no sacrilege committed

by our intrusion there: the sacred solitude was hospitable, and granted

us free leave to cook and eat in the recess that was at once our

kitchen and banqueting-hall. It is strange what humble offices may be

performed in a beautiful scene without destroying its poetry. Our fire,

red gleaming among the trees, and we beside it, busied with culinary

rites and spreading out our meal on a mossgrown log, all seemed in

unison with the river gliding by and the foliage rustling over us. And,

what was strangest, neither did our mirth seem to disturb the propriety

of the solemn woods; although the hobgoblins of the old wilderness and

the will-of-the-wisps that glimmered in the marshy places might have

come trooping to share our table-talk and have added their shrill

laughter to our merriment. It was the very spot in which to utter the

extremest nonsense or the profoundest wisdom, or that ethereal product

of the mind which partakes of both, and may become one or the other, in

correspondence with the faith and insight of the auditor.

So, amid sunshine and shadow, rustling leaves and sighing waters, up

gushed our talk like the babble of a fountain. The evanescent spray was

Ellery’s; and his, too, the lumps of golden thought that lay glimmering

in the fountain’s bed and brightened both our faces by the reflection.

Could he have drawn out that virgin gold, and stamped it with the

mint-mark that alone gives currency, the world might have had the

profit, and he the fame.

My mind was the richer merely by the knowledge

that it was there. But the chief profit of those wild days, to him and

me, lay not in any definite idea, not in any angular or rounded truth,

which we dug out of the shapeless mass of problematical stuff, but in

the freedom which we thereby won from all custom and conventionalism

and fettering influences of man on man. We were so free to-day that it

was impossible to be slaves again to-morrow. When we crossed the

threshold of the house or trod the thronged pavements of a city, still

the leaves of the trees that overhang the Assabeth were whispering to

us, “Be free! be free!” Therefore along that shady river-bank there are

spots, marked with a heap of ashes and half-consumed brands, only less

sacred in my remembrance than the hearth of a household fire.

And yet how sweet, as we floated homeward adown the golden river at

sunset,—how sweet was it to return within the system of human society,

not as to a dungeon and a chain, but as to a stately edifice, whence we

could go forth at will into state—her simplicity! How gently, too, did

the sight of the Old Manse, best seen from the river, overshadowed with

its willow and all environed about with the foliage of its orchard and

avenue,—how gently did its gray, homely aspect rebuke the speculative

extravagances of the day! It had grown sacred in connection with the

artificial life against which we inveighed; it had been a home for many

years, in spite of all; it was my home too; and, with these thoughts,

it seemed to me that all the artifice and conventionalism of life was

but an impalpable thinness upon its surface, and that the depth below

was none the worse for it. Once, as we turned our boat to the bank,

there was a cloud, in the shape of an immensely gigantic figure of a

hound, couched above the house, as if keeping guard over it. Gazing at

this symbol, I prayed that the upper influences might long protect the

institutions that had grown out of the heart of mankind.

If ever my readers should decide to give up civilized life, cities,

houses, and whatever moral or material enormities in addition to these

the perverted ingenuity of our race has contrived, let it be in the

early autumn. Then Nature will love him better than at any other

season, and will take him to her bosom with a more motherly tenderness.

I could scarcely endure the roof of the old house above me in those

first autumnal days. How early in the summer, too, the prophecy of

autumn comes! Earlier in some years than in others; sometimes even in

the first weeks of July.

There is no other feeling like what is caused

by this faint, doubtful, yet real perception—if it be not rather a

foreboding—of the year’s decay, so blessedly sweet and sad in the same

breath.

Did I say that there was no feeling like it? Ah, but there is a

half-acknowledged melancholy like to this when we stand in the

perfected vigor of our life and feel that Time has now given us all his

flowers, and that the next work of his never-idle fingers must be to

steal them one by one away.

I have forgotten whether the song of the cricket be not as early a

token of autumn’s approach as any other,—that song which may be called

an audible stillness; for though very loud and heard afar, yet the mind

does not take note of it as a sound, so completely is its individual

existence merged among the accompanying characteristics of the season.

Alas for the pleasant summertime! In August the grass is still verdant

on the hills and in the valleys; the foliage of the trees is as dense

as ever and as green; the flowers gleam forth in richer abundance along

the margin of the river and by the stone walls and deep among the

woods; the days, too, are as fervid now as they were a month ago; and

yet in every breath of wind and in every beam of sunshine we hear the

whispered farewell and behold the parting smile of a dear friend. There

is a coolness amid all the heat, a mildness in the blazing noon. Not a

breeze can stir but it thrills us with the breath of autumn. A pensive

glory is seen in the far, golden gleams, among the shadows of the

trees. The flowers—even the brightest of them, and they are the most

gorgeous of the year—have this gentle sadness wedded to their pomp, and

typify the character of the delicious time each within itself. The

brilliant cardinal-flower has never seemed gay to me.

Still later in the season Nature’s tenderness waxes stronger. It is

impossible not to be fond of our mother now; for she is so fond of us!

At other periods she does not make this impression on me, or only at

rare intervals; but in those genial days of autumn, when she has

perfected her harvests and accomplished every needful thing that was

given her to do, then she overflows with a blessed superfluity of love.

She has leisure to caress her children now. It is good to be alive and

at such times.

Thank Heaven for breath—yes, for mere breath—when it is

made up of a heavenly breeze like this! It comes with a real kiss upon

our cheeks; it would linger fondly around us if it might; but, since it

must be gone, it embraces us with its whole kindly heart and passes

onward to embrace likewise the next thing that it meets. A blessing is

flung abroad and scattered far and wide over the earth, to be gathered

up by all who choose. I recline upon the still unwithered grass and

whisper to myself, “O perfect day! O beautiful world! O beneficent

God!” And it is the promise of a blessed eternity; for our Creator

would never have made such lovely days and have given us the deep

hearts to enjoy them, above and beyond all thought, unless we were

meant to be immortal. This sunshine is the golden pledge thereof. It

beams through the gates of paradise and shows us glimpses far inward.

By and by, in a little time, the outward world puts on a drear

austerity. On some October morning there is a heavy hoarfrost on the

grass and along the tops of the fences; and at sunrise the leaves fall

from the trees of our avenue, without a breath of wind, quietly

descending by their own weight. All summer long they have murmured like

the noise of waters; they have roared loudly while the branches were

wrestling with the thunder-gust; they have made music both glad and

solemn; they have attuned my thoughts by their quiet sound as I paced

to and fro beneath the arch of intermingling boughs. Now they can only

rustle under my feet. Henceforth the gray parsonage begins to assume a

larger importance, and draws to its fireside,—for the abomination of

the air-tight stove is reserved till wintry weather,—draws closer and

closer to its fireside the vagrant impulses that had gone wandering

about through the summer.

When summer was dead and buried the Old Manse became as lonely as a

hermitage. Not that ever—in my time at least—it had been thronged with

company; but, at no rare intervals, we welcomed some friend out of the

dusty glare and tumult of the world, and rejoiced to share with him the

transparent obscurity that was floating over us. In one respect our

precincts were like the Enchanted Ground through which the pilgrim

travelled on his way to the Celestial City. The guests, each and all,

felt a slumberous influence upon them; they fell asleep in chairs, or

took a more deliberate siesta on the sofa, or were seen stretched among

the shadows of the orchard, looking up dreamily through the boughs.

They could not have paid a more acceptable compliment to my abode nor

to my own qualities as a host. I held it as a proof that they left

their cares behind them as they passed between the stone gate-posts at

the entrance of our avenue, and that the so powerful opiate was the

abundance of peace and quiet within and all around us. Others could

give them pleasure and amusement or instruction,—these could be picked

up anywhere; but it was for me to give them rest,—rest in a life of

trouble. What better could be done for those weary and world-worn

spirits?—for him whose career of perpetual action was impeded and

harassed by the rarest of his powers and the richest of his

acquirements?—for another who had thrown his ardent heart from earliest

youth into the strife of politics, and now, perchance, began to suspect

that one lifetime is too brief for the accomplishment of any lofty

aim?—for her oil whose feminine nature had been imposed the heavy gift

of intellectual power, such as a strong man might have staggered under,

and with it the necessity to act upon the world?—in a word, not to

multiply instances, what better could be done for anybody who came

within our magic circle than to throw the spell of a tranquil spirit

over him? And when it had wrought its full effect, then we dismissed

him, with but misty reminiscences, as if he had been dreaming of us.

Were I to adopt a pet idea as so many people do, and fondle it in my

embraces to the exclusion of all others, it would be, that the great

want which mankind labors under at this present period is sleep. The

world should recline its vast head on the first convenient pillow and

take an age-long nap. It has gone distracted through a morbid activity,

and, while preternaturally wide awake, is nevertheless tormented by

visions that seem real to it now, but would assume their true aspect

and character were all things once set right by an interval of sound

repose. This is the only method of getting rid of old delusions and

avoiding new ones; of regenerating our race, so that it might in due

time awake as an infant out of dewy slumber; of restoring to us the

simple perception of what is right and the single-hearted desire to

achieve it, both of which have long been lost in consequence of this

weary activity of brain and torpor or passion of the heart that now

afflict the universe. Stimulants, the only mode of treatment hitherto

attempted, cannot quell the disease; they do but heighten the delirium.

Let not the above paragraph ever be quoted against the author; for,

though tinctured with its modicum of truth, it is the result and

expression of what he knew, while he was writing, to be but a distorted

survey of the state and prospects of mankind. There were circumstances

around me which made it difficult to view the world precisely as it

exists; for, severe and sober as was the Old Manse, it was necessary to

go but a little way beyond its threshold before meeting with stranger

moral shapes of men than might have been encountered elsewhere in a

circuit of a thousand miles.

These hobgoblins of flesh and blood were attracted thither by the

widespreading influence of a great original thinker, who had his

earthly abode at the opposite extremity of our village. His mind acted

upon other minds of a certain constitution with wonderful magnetism,

and drew many men upon long pilgrimages to speak with him face to face.

Young visionaries—to whom just so much of insight had been imparted as

to make life all a labyrinth around them—came to seek the clew that

should guide them out of their self-involved bewilderment. Gray-headed

theorists—whose systems, at first air, had finally imprisoned them in

an iron framework—travelled painfully to his door, not to ask

deliverance, but to invite the free spirit into their own thraldom.

People that had lighted on a new thought or a thought that they fancied

new, came to Emerson, as the finder of a glittering gem hastens to a

lapidary, to ascertain its quality and value. Uncertain, troubled,

earnest wanderers through the midnight of the moral world beheld his

intellectual fire as a beacon burning on a hill-top, and, climbing the

difficult ascent, looked forth into the surrounding obscurity more

hopefully than hitherto. The light revealed objects unseen

before,—mountains, gleaming lakes, glimpses of a creation among the

chaos; but also, as was unavoidable, it attracted bats and owls and the

whole host of night birds, which flapped their dusky wings against the

gazer’s eyes, and sometimes were mistaken for fowls of angelic feather.

Such delusions always hover nigh whenever a beacon-fire of truth is

kindled.

For myself, there bad been epochs of my life when I, too, might have

asked of this prophet the master word that should solve me the riddle

of the universe; but now, being happy, I felt as if there were no

question to be put, and therefore admired Emerson as a poet, of deep

beauty and austere tenderness, but sought nothing from him as a

philosopher.

It was good, nevertheless, to meet him in the woodpaths,

or sometimes in our avenue, with that pure, intellectual gleam diffused

about his presence like the garment of a shining one; and be, so quiet,

so simple, so without pretension, encountering each man alive as if

expecting to receive more than he could impart. And, in truth, the

heart of many an ordinary man had, perchance, inscriptions which he

could not read. But it was impossible to dwell in his vicinity without

inhaling more or less the mountain atmosphere of his lofty thought,

which, in the brains of some people, wrought a singular giddiness,—new

truth being as heady as new wine. Never was a poor little country

village infested with such a variety of queer, strangely dressed, oddly

behaved mortals, most of whom took upon themselves to be important

agents of the world’s destiny, yet were simply bores of a very intense

water. Such, I imagine, is the invariable character of persons who

crowd so closely about an original thinker as to draw in his unuttered

breath and thus become imbued with a false originality. This triteness

of novelty is enough to make any man of common-sense blaspheme at all

ideas of less than a century’s standing, and pray that the world may be

petrified and rendered immovable in precisely the worst moral and

physical state that it ever yet arrived at, rather than be benefited by

such schemes of such philosophers.

And now I begin to feel—and perhaps should have sooner felt—that we

have talked enough of the Old Manse. Mine honored reader, it may be,

will vilify the poor author as an egotist for babbling through so many

pages about a mossgrown country parsonage, and his life within its

walls, and on the river, and in the woods, and the influences that

wrought upon him from all these sources. My conscience, however, does

not reproach me with betraying anything too sacredly individual to be

revealed by a human spirit to its brother or sister spirit. How

narrow-how shallow and scanty too—is the stream of thought that has

been flowing from my pen, compared with the broad tide of dim emotions,

ideas, and associations which swell around me from that portion of my

existence! How little have I told! and of that little, how almost

nothing is even tinctured with any quality that makes it exclusively my

own! Has the reader gone wandering, hand in hand with me, through the

inner passages of my being? and have we groped together into all its

chambers and examined their treasures or their rubbish? Not so.

We have

been standing on the greensward, but just within the cavern’s mouth,

where the common sunshine is free to penetrate, and where every

footstep is therefore free to come. I have appealed to no sentiment or

sensibilities save such as are diffused among us all. So far as I am a

man of really individual attributes I veil my face; nor am I, nor have

I ever been, one of those supremely hospitable people who serve up

their own hearts, delicately fried, with brain sauce, as a tidbit for

their beloved public.

Glancing back over what I have written, it seems but the scattered

reminiscences of a single summer. In fairyland there is no measurement

of time; and, in a spot so sheltered from the turmoil of life’s ocean,

three years hastened away with a noiseless flight, as the breezy

sunshine chases the cloud-shadows across the depths of a still valley.

Now came hints, growing more and more distinct, that the owner of the

old house was pining for his native air. Carpenters next, appeared,

making a tremendous racket among the outbuildings, strewing the green

grass with pine shavings and chips of chestnut joists, and vexing the

whole antiquity of the place with their discordant renovations. Soon,

moreover, they divested our abode of the veil of woodbine which had

crept over a large portion of its southern face. All the aged mosses

were cleared unsparingly away; and there were horrible whispers about

brushing up the external walls with a coat of paint,—a purpose as

little to my taste as might be that of rouging the venerable cheeks of

one’s grandmother. But the hand that renovates is always more

sacrilegious than that which destroys. In fine, we gathered up our

household goods, drank a farewell cup of tea in our pleasant little

breakfast-room,—delicately fragrant tea, an unpurchasable luxury, one

of the many angel gifts that had fallen like dew upon us,—and passed

forth between the tall stone gate-posts as uncertain as the wandering

Arabs where our tent might next be pitched. Providence took me by the

hand, and—an oddity of dispensation which, I trust, there is no

irreverence in smiling at—has led me, as the newspapers announce while

I am writing, from the Old Manse into a custom-house. As a

story-teller, I have often contrived strange vicissitudes for my

imaginary personages, but none like this.

The treasure of intellectual gold which I hoped to find in our secluded

dwelling had never come to light. No profound treatise of ethics, no

philosophic history, no novel even, that could stand unsupported on its

edges.

All that I had to show, as a man of letters, were these, few

tales and essays, which had blossomed out like flowers in the calm

summer of my heart and mind. Save editing (an easy task) the journal of

my friend of many years, the African Cruiser, I had done nothing else.

With these idle weeds and withering blossoms I have intermixed some

that were produced long ago,—old, faded things, reminding me of flowers

pressed between the leaves of a book,—and now offer the bouquet, such

as it is, to any whom it may please. These fitful sketches, with so

little of external life about them, yet claiming no profundity of

purpose,—so reserved, even while they sometimes seem so frank,—often

but half in earnest, and never, even when most so, expressing

satisfactorily the thoughts which they profess to image,—such trifles,

I truly feel, afford no solid basis for a literary reputation.

Nevertheless, the public—if my limited number of readers, whom I

venture to regard rather as a circle of friends, may be termed a

public—will receive them the more kindly, as the last offering, the

last collection of this nature which it is my purpose ever to put

forth. Unless I could do better, I have done enough in this kind. For

myself the book will always retain one charm,—as reminding me of the

river, with its delightful solitudes, and of the avenue, the garden,

and the orchard, and especially the dear Old Manse, with the little

study on its western side, and the sunshine glimmering through the

willow branches while I wrote.

Let the reader, if he will do me so much honor, imagine himself my

guest, and that, having seen whatever may be worthy of notice within

and about the Old Manse, he has finally been ushered into my study.

There, after seating him in an antique elbow-chair, an heirloom of the

house, I take forth a roll of manuscript and entreat his attention to

the following tales,—an act of personal inhospitality, however, which I

never was guilty of, nor ever will be, even to my worst enemy.

Chapter 2.

THE BIRTHMARK.

In the latter part of the last century there lived a man of science, an

eminent proficient in every branch of natural philosophy, who not long

before our story opens had made experience of a spiritual affinity more

attractive than any chemical one. He had left his laboratory to the

care of an assistant, cleared his fine countenance from the furnace

smoke, washed the stain of acids from his fingers, and persuaded a

beautiful woman to become his wife.

In those days when the

comparatively recent discovery of electricity and other kindred

mysteries of Nature seemed to open paths into the region of miracle, it

was not unusual for the love of science to rival the love of woman in

its depth and absorbing energy. The higher intellect, the imagination,

the spirit, and even the heart might all find their congenial aliment

in pursuits which, as some of their ardent votaries believed, would

ascend from one step of powerful intelligence to another, until the

philosopher should lay his hand on the secret of creative force and

perhaps make new worlds for himself. We know not whether Aylmer

possessed this degree of faith in man’s ultimate control over Nature.

He had devoted himself, however, too unreservedly to scientific studies

ever to be weaned from them by any second passion. His love for his

young wife might prove the stronger of the two; but it could only be by

intertwining itself with his love of science, and uniting the strength

of the latter to his own.

Such a union accordingly took place, and was attended with truly

remarkable consequences and a deeply impressive moral. One day, very

soon after their marriage, Aylmer sat gazing at his wife with a trouble

in his countenance that grew stronger until he spoke.

“Georgiana,” said he, “has it never occurred to you that the mark upon

your cheek might be removed?”

“No, indeed,” said she, smiling; but perceiving the seriousness of his

manner, she blushed deeply. “To tell you the truth it has been so often

called a charm that I was simple enough to imagine it might be so.”

“Ah, upon another face perhaps it might,” replied her husband; “but

never on yours. No, dearest Georgiana, you came so nearly perfect from

the hand of Nature that this slightest possible defect, which we

hesitate whether to term a defect or a beauty, shocks me, as being the

visible mark of earthly imperfection.”

“Shocks you, my husband!” cried Georgiana, deeply hurt; at first

reddening with momentary anger, but then bursting into tears. “Then why

did you take me from my mother’s side? You cannot love what shocks

you!”

To explain this conversation it must be mentioned that in the centre of

Georgiana’s left cheek there was a singular mark, deeply interwoven, as

it were, with the texture and substance of her face. In the usual state

of her complexion—a healthy though delicate bloom—the mark wore a tint

of deeper crimson, which imperfectly defined its shape amid the

surrounding rosiness.

When she blushed it gradually became more

indistinct, and finally vanished amid the triumphant rush of blood that

bathed the whole cheek with its brilliant glow. But if any shifting

motion caused her to turn pale there was the mark again, a crimson

stain upon the snow, in what Aylmer sometimes deemed an almost fearful

distinctness. Its shape bore not a little similarity to the human hand,

though of the smallest pygmy size. Georgiana’s lovers were wont to say

that some fairy at her birth hour had laid her tiny hand upon the

infant’s cheek, and left this impress there in token of the magic

endowments that were to give her such sway over all hearts. Many a

desperate swain would have risked life for the privilege of pressing

his lips to the mysterious hand. It must not be concealed, however,

that the impression wrought by this fairy sign manual varied

exceedingly, according to the difference of temperament in the

beholders. Some fastidious persons—but they were exclusively of her own

sex—affirmed that the bloody hand, as they chose to call it, quite

destroyed the effect of Georgiana’s beauty, and rendered her

countenance even hideous. But it would be as reasonable to say that one

of those small blue stains which sometimes occur in the purest statuary

marble would convert the Eve of Powers to a monster. Masculine

observers, if the birthmark did not heighten their admiration,

contented themselves with wishing it away, that the world might possess

one living specimen of ideal loveliness without the semblance of a

flaw. After his marriage,—for he thought little or nothing of the

matter before,—Aylmer discovered that this was the case with himself.

Had she been less beautiful,—if Envy’s self could have found aught else

to sneer at,—he might have felt his affection heightened by the

prettiness of this mimic hand, now vaguely portrayed, now lost, now

stealing forth again and glimmering to and fro with every pulse of

emotion that throbbed within her heart; but seeing her otherwise so

perfect, he found this one defect grow more and more intolerable with

every moment of their united lives. It was the fatal flaw of humanity

which Nature, in one shape or another, stamps ineffaceably on all her

productions, either to imply that they are temporary and finite, or

that their perfection must be wrought by toil and pain. The crimson

hand expressed the ineludible gripe in which mortality clutches the

highest and purest of earthly mould, degrading them into kindred with

the lowest, and even with the very brutes, like whom their visible

frames return to dust.

In this manner, selecting it as the symbol of

his wife’s liability to sin, sorrow, decay, and death, Aylmer’s sombre

imagination was not long in rendering the birthmark a frightful object,

causing him more trouble and horror than ever Georgiana’s beauty,

whether of soul or sense, had given him delight.

At all the seasons which should have been their happiest, he invariably

and without intending it, nay, in spite of a purpose to the contrary,

reverted to this one disastrous topic. Trifling as it at first

appeared, it so connected itself with innumerable trains of thought and

modes of feeling that it became the central point of all. With the

morning twilight Aylmer opened his eyes upon his wife’s face and

recognized the symbol of imperfection; and when they sat together at

the evening hearth his eyes wandered stealthily to her cheek, and

beheld, flickering with the blaze of the wood fire, the spectral hand

that wrote mortality where he would fain have worshipped. Georgiana

soon learned to shudder at his gaze. It needed but a glance with the

peculiar expression that his face often wore to change the roses of her

cheek into a deathlike paleness, amid which the crimson hand was

brought strongly out, like a bass-relief of ruby on the whitest marble.

Late one night when the lights were growing dim, so as hardly to betray

the stain on the poor wife’s cheek, she herself, for the first time,

voluntarily took up the subject.

“Do you remember, my dear Aylmer,” said she, with a feeble attempt at a

smile, “have you any recollection of a dream last night about this

odious hand?”

“None! none whatever!” replied Aylmer, starting; but then he added, in

a dry, cold tone, affected for the sake of concealing the real depth of

his emotion, “I might well dream of it; for before I fell asleep it had

taken a pretty firm hold of my fancy.”

“And you did dream of it?” continued Georgiana, hastily; for she

dreaded lest a gush of tears should interrupt what she had to say. “A

terrible dream! I wonder that you can forget it. Is it possible to

forget this one expression?—‘It is in her heart now; we must have it

out!’ Reflect, my husband; for by all means I would have you recall

that dream.”

The mind is in a sad state when Sleep, the all-involving, cannot

confine her spectres within the dim region of her sway, but suffers

them to break forth, affrighting this actual life with secrets that

perchance belong to a deeper one. Aylmer now remembered his dream.

He

had fancied himself with his servant Aminadab, attempting an operation

for the removal of the birthmark; but the deeper went the knife, the

deeper sank the hand, until at length its tiny grasp appeared to have

caught hold of Georgiana’s heart; whence, however, her husband was

inexorably resolved to cut or wrench it away.

When the dream had shaped itself perfectly in his memory, Aylmer sat in

his wife’s presence with a guilty feeling. Truth often finds its way to

the mind close muffled in robes of sleep, and then speaks with

uncompromising directness of matters in regard to which we practise an

unconscious self-deception during our waking moments. Until now he had

not been aware of the tyrannizing influence acquired by one idea over

his mind, and of the lengths which he might find in his heart to go for

the sake of giving himself peace.

“Aylmer,” resumed Georgiana, solemnly, “I know not what may be the cost

to both of us to rid me of this fatal birthmark. Perhaps its removal

may cause cureless deformity; or it may be the stain goes as deep as

life itself. Again: do we know that there is a possibility, on any

terms, of unclasping the firm gripe of this little hand which was laid

upon me before I came into the world?”

“Dearest Georgiana, I have spent much thought upon the subject,”

hastily interrupted Aylmer. “I am convinced of the perfect

practicability of its removal.”

“If there be the remotest possibility of it,” continued Georgiana, “let

the attempt be made at whatever risk. Danger is nothing to me; for

life, while this hateful mark makes me the object of your horror and

disgust,—life is a burden which I would fling down with joy. Either

remove this dreadful hand, or take my wretched life! You have deep

science. All the world bears witness of it. You have achieved great

wonders. Cannot you remove this little, little mark, which I cover with

the tips of two small fingers? Is this beyond your power, for the sake

of your own peace, and to save your poor wife from madness?”

“Noblest, dearest, tenderest wife,” cried Aylmer, rapturously, “doubt

not my power. I have already given this matter the deepest

thought—thought which might almost have enlightened me to create a

being less perfect than yourself. Georgiana, you have led me deeper

than ever into the heart of science.

I feel myself fully competent to

render this dear cheek as faultless as its fellow; and then, most

beloved, what will be my triumph when I shall have corrected what

Nature left imperfect in her fairest work! Even Pygmalion, when his

sculptured woman assumed life, felt not greater ecstasy than mine will

be.”

“It is resolved, then,” said Georgiana, faintly smiling. “And, Aylmer,

spare me not, though you should find the birthmark take refuge in my

heart at last.”

Her husband tenderly kissed her cheek—her right cheek—not that which

bore the impress of the crimson hand.

The next day Aylmer apprised his wife of a plan that he had formed

whereby he might have opportunity for the intense thought and constant

watchfulness which the proposed operation would require; while

Georgiana, likewise, would enjoy the perfect repose essential to its

success. They were to seclude themselves in the extensive apartments

occupied by Aylmer as a laboratory, and where, during his toilsome

youth, he had made discoveries in the elemental powers of Nature that

had roused the admiration of all the learned societies in Europe.

Seated calmly in this laboratory, the pale philosopher had investigated

the secrets of the highest cloud region and of the profoundest mines;

he had satisfied himself of the causes that kindled and kept alive the

fires of the volcano; and had explained the mystery of fountains, and

how it is that they gush forth, some so bright and pure, and others

with such rich medicinal virtues, from the dark bosom of the earth.

Here, too, at an earlier period, he had studied the wonders of the

human frame, and attempted to fathom the very process by which Nature

assimilates all her precious influences from earth and air, and from

the spiritual world, to create and foster man, her masterpiece. The

latter pursuit, however, Aylmer had long laid aside in unwilling

recognition of the truth—against which all seekers sooner or later

stumble—that our great creative Mother, while she amuses us with

apparently working in the broadest sunshine, is yet severely careful to

keep her own secrets, and, in spite of her pretended openness, shows us

nothing but results. She permits us, indeed, to mar, but seldom to

mend, and, like a jealous patentee, on no account to make. Now,

however, Aylmer resumed these half-forgotten investigations; not, of

course, with such hopes or wishes as first suggested them; but because

they involved much physiological truth and lay in the path of his

proposed scheme for the treatment of Georgiana.

As he led her over the threshold of the laboratory, Georgiana was cold

and tremulous. Aylmer looked cheerfully into her face, with intent to

reassure her, but was so startled with the intense glow of the

birthmark upon the whiteness of her cheek that he could not restrain a

strong convulsive shudder. His wife fainted.

“Aminadab! Aminadab!” shouted Aylmer, stamping violently on the floor.

Forthwith there issued from an inner apartment a man of low stature,

but bulky frame, with shaggy hair hanging about his visage, which was

grimed with the vapors of the furnace. This personage had been Aylmer’s

underworker during his whole scientific career, and was admirably

fitted for that office by his great mechanical readiness, and the skill

with which, while incapable of comprehending a single principle, he

executed all the details of his master’s experiments. With his vast

strength, his shaggy hair, his smoky aspect, and the indescribable

earthiness that incrusted him, he seemed to represent man’s physical

nature; while Aylmer’s slender figure, and pale, intellectual face,

were no less apt a type of the spiritual element.

“Throw open the door of the boudoir, Aminadab,” said Aylmer, “and burn

a pastil.”

“Yes, master,” answered Aminadab, looking intently at the lifeless form

of Georgiana; and then he muttered to himself, “If she were my wife,

I’d never part with that birthmark.”

When Georgiana recovered consciousness she found herself breathing an

atmosphere of penetrating fragrance, the gentle potency of which had

recalled her from her deathlike faintness. The scene around her looked

like enchantment. Aylmer had converted those smoky, dingy, sombre

rooms, where he had spent his brightest years in recondite pursuits,

into a series of beautiful apartments not unfit to be the secluded

abode of a lovely woman. The walls were hung with gorgeous curtains,

which imparted the combination of grandeur and grace that no other

species of adornment can achieve; and as they fell from the ceiling to

the floor, their rich and ponderous folds, concealing all angles and

straight lines, appeared to shut in the scene from infinite space. For

aught Georgiana knew, it might be a pavilion among the clouds. And

Aylmer, excluding the sunshine, which would have interfered with his

chemical processes, had supplied its place with perfumed lamps,

emitting flames of various hue, but all uniting in a soft, impurpled

radiance.

He now knelt by his wife’s side, watching her earnestly, but

without alarm; for he was confident in his science, and felt that he

could draw a magic circle round her within which no evil might intrude.

“Where am I? Ah, I remember,” said Georgiana, faintly; and she placed

her hand over her cheek to hide the terrible mark from her husband’s

eyes.

“Fear not, dearest!” exclaimed he. “Do not shrink from me! Believe me,

Georgiana, I even rejoice in this single imperfection, since it will be

such a rapture to remove it.”

“Oh, spare me!” sadly replied his wife. “Pray do not look at it again.

I never can forget that convulsive shudder.”

In order to soothe Georgiana, and, as it were, to release her mind from

the burden of actual things, Aylmer now put in practice some of the

light and playful secrets which science had taught him among its

profounder lore. Airy figures, absolutely bodiless ideas, and forms of

unsubstantial beauty came and danced before her, imprinting their

momentary footsteps on beams of light. Though she had some indistinct

idea of the method of these optical phenomena, still the illusion was

almost perfect enough to warrant the belief that her husband possessed

sway over the spiritual world. Then again, when she felt a wish to look

forth from her seclusion, immediately, as if her thoughts were

answered, the procession of external existence flitted across a screen.

The scenery and the figures of actual life were perfectly represented,

but with that bewitching, yet indescribable difference which always

makes a picture, an image, or a shadow so much more attractive than the

original. When wearied of this, Aylmer bade her cast her eyes upon a

vessel containing a quantity of earth. She did so, with little interest

at first; but was soon startled to perceive the germ of a plant

shooting upward from the soil. Then came the slender stalk; the leaves

gradually unfolded themselves; and amid them was a perfect and lovely

flower.

“It is magical!” cried Georgiana. “I dare not touch it.”

“Nay, pluck it,” answered Aylmer,—“pluck it, and inhale its brief

perfume while you may. The flower will wither in a few moments and

leave nothing save its brown seed vessels; but thence may be

perpetuated a race as ephemeral as itself.”

But Georgiana had no sooner touched the flower than the whole plant

suffered a blight, its leaves turning coal-black as if by the agency of

fire.

“There was too powerful a stimulus,” said Aylmer, thoughtfully.

To make up for this abortive experiment, he proposed to take her

portrait by a scientific process of his own invention.

It was to be

effected by rays of light striking upon a polished plate of metal.

Georgiana assented; but, on looking at the result, was affrighted to

find the features of the portrait blurred and indefinable; while the

minute figure of a hand appeared where the cheek should have been.

Aylmer snatched the metallic plate and threw it into a jar of corrosive

acid.

Soon, however, he forgot these mortifying failures. In the intervals of

study and chemical experiment he came to her flushed and exhausted, but

seemed invigorated by her presence, and spoke in glowing language of

the resources of his art. He gave a history of the long dynasty of the

alchemists, who spent so many ages in quest of the universal solvent by

which the golden principle might be elicited from all things vile and

base. Aylmer appeared to believe that, by the plainest scientific

logic, it was altogether within the limits of possibility to discover

this long-sought medium; “but,” he added, “a philosopher who should go

deep enough to acquire the power would attain too lofty a wisdom to

stoop to the exercise of it.” Not less singular were his opinions in

regard to the elixir vitae. He more than intimated that it was at his

option to concoct a liquid that should prolong life for years, perhaps

interminably; but that it would produce a discord in Nature which all

the world, and chiefly the quaffer of the immortal nostrum, would find

cause to curse.

“Aylmer, are you in earnest?” asked Georgiana, looking at him with

amazement and fear. “It is terrible to possess such power, or even to

dream of possessing it.”

“Oh, do not tremble, my love,” said her husband. “I would not wrong

either you or myself by working such inharmonious effects upon our

lives; but I would have you consider how trifling, in comparison, is

the skill requisite to remove this little hand.”

At the mention of the birthmark, Georgiana, as usual, shrank as if a

redhot iron had touched her cheek.

Again Aylmer applied himself to his labors. She could hear his voice in

the distant furnace room giving directions to Aminadab, whose harsh,

uncouth, misshapen tones were audible in response, more like the grunt

or growl of a brute than human speech. After hours of absence, Aylmer

reappeared and proposed that she should now examine his cabinet of

chemical products and natural treasures of the earth. Among the former

he showed her a small vial, in which, he remarked, was contained a

gentle yet most powerful fragrance, capable of impregnating all the

breezes that blow across a kingdom.

They were of inestimable value, the

contents of that little vial; and, as he said so, he threw some of the

perfume into the air and filled the room with piercing and invigorating

delight.

“And what is this?” asked Georgiana, pointing to a small crystal globe

containing a gold-colored liquid. “It is so beautiful to the eye that I

could imagine it the elixir of life.”

“In one sense it is,” replied Aylmer; “or, rather, the elixir of

immortality. It is the most precious poison that ever was concocted in

this world. By its aid I could apportion the lifetime of any mortal at

whom you might point your finger. The strength of the dose would

determine whether he were to linger out years, or drop dead in the

midst of a breath. No king on his guarded throne could keep his life if

I, in my private station, should deem that the welfare of millions

justified me in depriving him of it.”

“Why do you keep such a terrific drug?” inquired Georgiana in horror.

“Do not mistrust me, dearest,” said her husband, smiling; “its virtuous

potency is yet greater than its harmful one. But see! here is a

powerful cosmetic. With a few drops of this in a vase of water,

freckles may be washed away as easily as the hands are cleansed. A

stronger infusion would take the blood out of the cheek, and leave the

rosiest beauty a pale ghost.”

“Is it with this lotion that you intend to bathe my cheek?” asked

Georgiana, anxiously.

“Oh, no,” hastily replied her husband; “this is merely superficial.

Your case demands a remedy that shall go deeper.”

In his interviews with Georgiana, Aylmer generally made minute

inquiries as to her sensations and whether the confinement of the rooms

and the temperature of the atmosphere agreed with her. These questions

had such a particular drift that Georgiana began to conjecture that she

was already subjected to certain physical influences, either breathed

in with the fragrant air or taken with her food. She fancied likewise,

but it might be altogether fancy, that there was a stirring up of her

system—a strange, indefinite sensation creeping through her veins, and

tingling, half painfully, half pleasurably, at her heart. Still,

whenever she dared to look into the mirror, there she beheld herself

pale as a white rose and with the crimson birthmark stamped upon her

cheek. Not even Aylmer now hated it so much as she.

To dispel the tedium of the hours which her husband found it necessary

to devote to the processes of combination and analysis, Georgiana

turned over the volumes of his scientific library.

In many dark old

tomes she met with chapters full of romance and poetry. They were the

works of philosophers of the middle ages, such as Albertus Magnus,

Cornelius Agrippa, Paracelsus, and the famous friar who created the

prophetic Brazen Head. All these antique naturalists stood in advance

of their centuries, yet were imbued with some of their credulity, and

therefore were believed, and perhaps imagined themselves to have

acquired from the investigation of Nature a power above Nature, and

from physics a sway over the spiritual world. Hardly less curious and

imaginative were the early volumes of the Transactions of the Royal

Society, in which the members, knowing little of the limits of natural

possibility, were continually recording wonders or proposing methods

whereby wonders might be wrought.

But to Georgiana the most engrossing volume was a large folio from her

husband’s own hand, in which he had recorded every experiment of his

scientific career, its original aim, the methods adopted for its

development, and its final success or failure, with the circumstances

to which either event was attributable. The book, in truth, was both

the history and emblem of his ardent, ambitious, imaginative, yet

practical and laborious life. He handled physical details as if there

were nothing beyond them; yet spiritualized them all, and redeemed

himself from materialism by his strong and eager aspiration towards the

infinite. In his grasp the veriest clod of earth assumed a soul.

Georgiana, as she read, reverenced Aylmer and loved him more profoundly

than ever, but with a less entire dependence on his judgment than

heretofore. Much as he had accomplished, she could not but observe that

his most splendid successes were almost invariably failures, if

compared with the ideal at which he aimed. His brightest diamonds were

the merest pebbles, and felt to be so by himself, in comparison with

the inestimable gems which lay hidden beyond his reach. The volume,

rich with achievements that had won renown for its author, was yet as

melancholy a record as ever mortal hand had penned. It was the sad

confession and continual exemplification of the shortcomings of the

composite man, the spirit burdened with clay and working in matter, and

of the despair that assails the higher nature at finding itself so

miserably thwarted by the earthly part. Perhaps every man of genius in

whatever sphere might recognize the image of his own experience in

Aylmer’s journal.

So deeply did these reflections affect Georgiana that she laid her face

upon the open volume and burst into tears.

In this situation she was

found by her husband.

“It is dangerous to read in a sorcerer’s books,” said he with a smile,

though his countenance was uneasy and displeased. “Georgiana, there are

pages in that volume which I can scarcely glance over and keep my

senses. Take heed lest it prove as detrimental to you.”

“It has made me worship you more than ever,” said she.

“Ah, wait for this one success,” rejoined he, “then worship me if you

will. I shall deem myself hardly unworthy of it. But come, I have

sought you for the luxury of your voice. Sing to me, dearest.”

So she poured out the liquid music of her voice to quench the thirst of

his spirit. He then took his leave with a boyish exuberance of gayety,

assuring her that her seclusion would endure but a little longer, and

that the result was already certain. Scarcely had he departed when

Georgiana felt irresistibly impelled to follow him. She had forgotten

to inform Aylmer of a symptom which for two or three hours past had

begun to excite her attention. It was a sensation in the fatal

birthmark, not painful, but which induced a restlessness throughout her

system. Hastening after her husband, she intruded for the first time

into the laboratory.

The first thing that struck her eye was the furnace, that hot and

feverish worker, with the intense glow of its fire, which by the

quantities of soot clustered above it seemed to have been burning for

ages. There was a distilling apparatus in full operation. Around the

room were retorts, tubes, cylinders, crucibles, and other apparatus of

chemical research. An electrical machine stood ready for immediate use.

The atmosphere felt oppressively close, and was tainted with gaseous

odors which had been tormented forth by the processes of science. The

severe and homely simplicity of the apartment, with its naked walls and

brick pavement, looked strange, accustomed as Georgiana had become to

the fantastic elegance of her boudoir. But what chiefly, indeed almost

solely, drew her attention, was the aspect of Aylmer himself.

He was pale as death, anxious and absorbed, and hung over the furnace

as if it depended upon his utmost watchfulness whether the liquid which

it was distilling should be the draught of immortal happiness or

misery. How different from the sanguine and joyous mien that he had

assumed for Georgiana’s encouragement!

“Carefully now, Aminadab; carefully, thou human machine; carefully,

thou man of clay!” muttered Aylmer, more to himself than his assistant.

“Now, if there be a thought too much or too little, it is all over.”

“Ho! ho!” mumbled Aminadab.

“Look, master! look!”

Aylmer raised his eyes hastily, and at first reddened, then grew paler

than ever, on beholding Georgiana. He rushed towards her and seized her

arm with a gripe that left the print of his fingers upon it.

“Why do you come hither? Have you no trust in your husband?” cried he,

impetuously. “Would you throw the blight of that fatal birthmark over

my labors? It is not well done. Go, prying woman, go!”

“Nay, Aylmer,” said Georgiana with the firmness of which she possessed

no stinted endowment, “it is not you that have a right to complain. You

mistrust your wife; you have concealed the anxiety with which you watch

the development of this experiment. Think not so unworthily of me, my

husband. Tell me all the risk we run, and fear not that I shall shrink;

for my share in it is far less than your own.”

“No, no, Georgiana!” said Aylmer, impatiently; “it must not be.”

“I submit,” replied she calmly. “And, Aylmer, I shall quaff whatever

draught you bring me; but it will be on the same principle that would

induce me to take a dose of poison if offered by your hand.”

“My noble wife,” said Aylmer, deeply moved, “I knew not the height and

depth of your nature until now. Nothing shall be concealed. Know, then,

that this crimson hand, superficial as it seems, has clutched its grasp

into your being with a strength of which I had no previous conception.

I have already administered agents powerful enough to do aught except

to change your entire physical system. Only one thing remains to be

tried. If that fail us we are ruined.”

“Why did you hesitate to tell me this?” asked she.

“Because, Georgiana,” said Aylmer, in a low voice, “there is danger.”

“Danger? There is but one danger—that this horrible stigma shall be

left upon my cheek!” cried Georgiana. “Remove it, remove it, whatever

be the cost, or we shall both go mad!”

“Heaven knows your words are too true,” said Aylmer, sadly. “And now,

dearest, return to your boudoir. In a little while all will be tested.”

He conducted her back and took leave of her with a solemn tenderness

which spoke far more than his words how much was now at stake. After

his departure Georgiana became rapt in musings. She considered the

character of Aylmer, and did it completer justice than at any previous

moment. Her heart exulted, while it trembled, at his honorable love—so

pure and lofty that it would accept nothing less than perfection nor

miserably make itself contented with an earthlier nature than he had

dreamed of.

She felt how much more precious was such a sentiment than

that meaner kind which would have borne with the imperfection for her

sake, and have been guilty of treason to holy love by degrading its

perfect idea to the level of the actual; and with her whole spirit she

prayed that, for a single moment, she might satisfy his highest and

deepest conception. Longer than one moment she well knew it could not

be; for his spirit was ever on the march, ever ascending, and each

instant required something that was beyond the scope of the instant

before.

The sound of her husband’s footsteps aroused her. He bore a crystal

goblet containing a liquor colorless as water, but bright enough to be

the draught of immortality. Aylmer was pale; but it seemed rather the

consequence of a highly-wrought state of mind and tension of spirit

than of fear or doubt.

“The concoction of the draught has been perfect,” said he, in answer to

Georgiana’s look. “Unless all my science have deceived me, it cannot

fail.”

“Save on your account, my dearest Aylmer,” observed his wife, “I might

wish to put off this birthmark of mortality by relinquishing mortality

itself in preference to any other mode. Life is but a sad possession to

those who have attained precisely the degree of moral advancement at

which I stand. Were I weaker and blinder it might be happiness. Were I

stronger, it might be endured hopefully. But, being what I find myself,

methinks I am of all mortals the most fit to die.”

“You are fit for heaven without tasting death!” replied her husband

“But why do we speak of dying? The draught cannot fail. Behold its

effect upon this plant.”

On the window seat there stood a geranium diseased with yellow

blotches, which had overspread all its leaves. Aylmer poured a small

quantity of the liquid upon the soil in which it grew. In a little

time, when the roots of the plant had taken up the moisture, the

unsightly blotches began to be extinguished in a living verdure.

“There needed no proof,” said Georgiana, quietly. “Give me the goblet I

joyfully stake all upon your word.”

“Drink, then, thou lofty creature!” exclaimed Aylmer, with fervid

admiration. “There is no taint of imperfection on thy spirit. Thy

sensible frame, too, shall soon be all perfect.”

She quaffed the liquid and returned the goblet to his hand.

“It is grateful,” said she with a placid smile. “Methinks it is like

water from a heavenly fountain; for it contains I know not what of

unobtrusive fragrance and deliciousness. It allays a feverish thirst

that had parched me for many days. Now, dearest, let me sleep.

My

earthly senses are closing over my spirit like the leaves around the

heart of a rose at sunset.”

She spoke the last words with a gentle reluctance, as if it required

almost more energy than she could command to pronounce the faint and

lingering syllables. Scarcely had they loitered through her lips ere

she was lost in slumber. Aylmer sat by her side, watching her aspect

with the emotions proper to a man the whole value of whose existence

was involved in the process now to be tested. Mingled with this mood,

however, was the philosophic investigation characteristic of the man of

science. Not the minutest symptom escaped him. A heightened flush of

the cheek, a slight irregularity of breath, a quiver of the eyelid, a

hardly perceptible tremor through the frame,—such were the details

which, as the moments passed, he wrote down in his folio volume.

Intense thought had set its stamp upon every previous page of that

volume, but the thoughts of years were all concentrated upon the last.

While thus employed, he failed not to gaze often at the fatal hand, and

not without a shudder. Yet once, by a strange and unaccountable impulse

he pressed it with his lips. His spirit recoiled, however, in the very

act, and Georgiana, out of the midst of her deep sleep, moved uneasily

and murmured as if in remonstrance. Again Aylmer resumed his watch. Nor

was it without avail. The crimson hand, which at first had been

strongly visible upon the marble paleness of Georgiana’s cheek, now

grew more faintly outlined. She remained not less pale than ever; but

the birthmark with every breath that came and went, lost somewhat of

its former distinctness. Its presence had been awful; its departure was

more awful still. Watch the stain of the rainbow fading out the sky,

and you will know how that mysterious symbol passed away.

“By Heaven! it is well-nigh gone!” said Aylmer to himself, in almost

irrepressible ecstasy. “I can scarcely trace it now. Success! success!

And now it is like the faintest rose color. The lightest flush of blood

across her cheek would overcome it. But she is so pale!”

He drew aside the window curtain and suffered the light of natural day

to fall into the room and rest upon her cheek. At the same time he

heard a gross, hoarse chuckle, which he had long known as his servant

Aminadab’s expression of delight.

“Ah, clod! ah, earthly mass!” cried Aylmer, laughing in a sort of

frenzy, “you have served me well! Matter and spirit—earth and

heaven—have both done their part in this! Laugh, thing of the senses!

You have earned the right to laugh.

”

These exclamations broke Georgiana’s sleep. She slowly unclosed her

eyes and gazed into the mirror which her husband had arranged for that

purpose. A faint smile flitted over her lips when she recognized how

barely perceptible was now that crimson hand which had once blazed

forth with such disastrous brilliancy as to scare away all their

happiness. But then her eyes sought Aylmer’s face with a trouble and

anxiety that he could by no means account for.

“My poor Aylmer!” murmured she.

“Poor? Nay, richest, happiest, most favored!” exclaimed he. “My

peerless bride, it is successful! You are perfect!”

“My poor Aylmer,” she repeated, with a more than human tenderness, “you

have aimed loftily; you have done nobly. Do not repent that with so

high and pure a feeling, you have rejected the best the earth could

offer. Aylmer, dearest Aylmer, I am dying!”

Alas! it was too true! The fatal hand had grappled with the mystery of

life, and was the bond by which an angelic spirit kept itself in union

with a mortal frame. As the last crimson tint of the birthmark—that

sole token of human imperfection—faded from her cheek, the parting

breath of the now perfect woman passed into the atmosphere, and her

soul, lingering a moment near her husband, took its heavenward flight.

Then a hoarse, chuckling laugh was heard again! Thus ever does the

gross fatality of earth exult in its invariable triumph over the

immortal essence which, in this dim sphere of half development, demands

the completeness of a higher state. Yet, had Alymer reached a

profounder wisdom, he need not thus have flung away the happiness which

would have woven his mortal life of the selfsame texture with the

celestial. The momentary circumstance was too strong for him; he failed

to look beyond the shadowy scope of time, and, living once for all in

eternity, to find the perfect future in the present.

Chapter 3.

A SELECT PARTY.

The man of fancy made an entertainment at one of his castles in the

air, and invited a select number of distinguished personages to favor

him with their presence. The mansion, though less splendid than many

that have been situated in the same region, was nevertheless of a

magnificence such as is seldom witnessed by those acquainted only with

terrestrial architecture. Its strong foundations and massive walls were

quarried out of a ledge of heavy and sombre clouds which had hung

brooding over the earth, apparently as dense and ponderous as its own

granite, throughout a whole autumnal day.

Perceiving that the general

effect was gloomy,—so that the airy castle looked like a feudal

fortress, or a monastery of the Middle Ages, or a state prison of our

own times, rather than the home of pleasure and repose which he

intended it to be,—the owner, regardless of expense, resolved to gild

the exterior from top to bottom. Fortunately, there was just then a

flood of evening sunshine in the air. This being gathered up and poured

abundantly upon the roof and walls, imbued them with a kind of solemn

cheerfulness; while the cupolas and pinnacles were made to glitter with

the purest gold, and all the hundred windows gleamed with a glad light,

as if the edifice itself were rejoicing in its heart.

And now, if the people of the lower world chanced to be looking upward

out of the turmoil of their petty perplexities, they probably mistook

the castle in the air for a heap of sunset clouds, to which the magic

of light and shade had imparted the aspect of a fantastically

constructed mansion. To such beholders it was unreal, because they

lacked the imaginative faith. Had they been worthy to pass within its

portal, they would have recognized the truth, that the dominions which

the spirit conquers for itself among unrealities become a thousand

times more real than the earth whereon they stamp their feet, saying,

“This is solid and substantial; this may be called a fact.”

At the appointed hour, the host stood in his great saloon to receive

the company. It was a vast and noble room, the vaulted ceiling of which

was supported by double rows of gigantic pillars that had been hewn

entire out of masses of variegated clouds. So brilliantly were they

polished, and so exquisitely wrought by the sculptor’s skill, as to

resemble the finest specimens of emerald, porphyry, opal, and

chrysolite, thus producing a delicate richness of effect which their

immense size rendered not incompatible with grandeur. To each of these

pillars a meteor was suspended. Thousands of these ethereal lustres are

continually wandering about the firmament, burning out to waste, yet

capable of imparting a useful radiance to any person who has the art of

converting them to domestic purposes. As managed in the saloon, they

are far more economical than ordinary lamplight. Such, however, was the

intensity of their blaze that it had been found expedient to cover each

meteor with a globe of evening mist, thereby muffling the too potent

glow and soothing it into a mild and comfortable splendor.

It was like

the brilliancy of a powerful yet chastened imagination,—a light which

seemed to hide whatever was unworthy to be noticed and give effect to

every beautiful and noble attribute. The guests, therefore, as they

advanced up the centre of the saloon, appeared to better advantage than

ever before in their lives.

The first that entered, with old-fashioned punctuality, was a venerable

figure in the costume of bygone days, with his white hair flowing down

over his shoulders and a reverend beard upon his breast. He leaned upon

a staff, the tremulous stroke of which, as he set it carefully upon the

floor, re-echoed through the saloon at every footstep. Recognizing at

once this celebrated personage, whom it had cost him a vast deal of

trouble and research to discover, the host advanced nearly three

fourths of the distance down between the pillars to meet and welcome

him.

“Venerable sir,” said the Man of Fancy, bending to the floor, “the

honor of this visit would never be forgotten were my term of existence

to be as happily prolonged as your own.”

The old gentleman received the compliment with gracious condescension.

He then thrust up his spectacles over his forehead and appeared to take

a critical survey of the saloon.

“Never within my recollection,” observed he, “have I entered a more

spacious and noble hall. But are you sure that it is built of solid

materials and that the structure will be permanent?”

“O, never fear, my venerable friend,” replied the host. “In reference

to a lifetime like your own, it is true my castle may well be called a

temporary edifice. But it will endure long enough to answer all the

purposes for which it was erected.”

But we forget that the reader has not yet been made acquainted with the

guest. It was no other than that universally accredited character so

constantly referred to in all seasons of intense cold or heat; he that,

remembers the hot Sunday and the cold Friday; the witness of a past age

whose negative reminiscences find their way into every newspaper, yet

whose antiquated and dusky abode is so overshadowed by accumulated

years and crowded back by modern edifices that none but the Man of

Fancy could have discovered it; it was, in short, that twin brother of

Time, and great-grandsire of mankind, and hand-and-glove associate of

all forgotten men and things,—the Oldest Inhabitant.

The host would

willingly have drawn him into conversation, but succeeded only in

eliciting a few remarks as to the oppressive atmosphere of this present

summer evening compared with one which the guest had experienced about

fourscore years ago. The old gentleman, in fact, was a good deal

overcome by his journey among the clouds, which, to a frame so

earth-incrusted by long continuance in a lower region, was unavoidably

more fatiguing than to younger spirits. He was therefore conducted to

an easy-chair, well cushioned and stuffed with vaporous softness, and

left to take a little repose.

The Man of Fancy now discerned another guest, who stood so quietly in

the shadow of one of the pillars that he might easily have been

overlooked.

“My dear sir,” exclaimed the host, grasping him warmly by the hand,

“allow me to greet you as the hero of the evening. Pray do not take it

as an empty compliment; for, if there were not another guest in my

castle, it would be entirely pervaded with your presence.”

“I thank you,” answered the unpretending stranger; “but, though you

happened to overlook me, I have not just arrived. I came very early;

and, with your permission, shall remain after the rest of the company

have retired.”

And who does the reader imagine was this unobtrusive guest? It was the

famous performer of acknowledged impossibilities,—a character of

superhuman capacity and virtue, and, if his enemies are to be credited,

of no less remarkable weaknesses and defects. With a generosity with

which he alone sets us an example, we will glance merely at his nobler

attributes. He it is, then, who prefers the interests of others to his

own and a humble station to an exalted one. Careless of fashion,

custom, the opinions of men, and the influence of the press, he

assimilates his life to the standard of ideal rectitude, and thus

proves himself the one independent citizen of our free country. In

point of ability, many people declare him to be the only mathematician

capable of squaring the circle; the only mechanic acquainted with the

principle of perpetual motion; the only scientific philosopher who can

compel water to run up hill; the only writer of the age whose genius is

equal to the production of an epic poem; and, finally, so various are

his accomplishments, the only professor of gymnastics who has succeeded

in jumping down his own throat. With all these talents, however, he is

so far from being considered a member of good society, that it is the

severest censure of any fashionable assemblage to affirm that this

remarkable individual was present.

Public orators, lecturers, and

theatrical performers particularly eschew his company. For especial

reasons, we are not at liberty to disclose his name, and shall mention

only one other trait,—a most singular phenomenon in natural

philosophy,—that, when he happens to cast his eyes upon a

looking-glass, he beholds Nobody reflected there!

Several other guests now made their appearance; and among them,

chattering with immense volubility, a brisk little gentleman of

universal vogue in private society, and not unknown in the public

journals under the title of Monsieur On-Dit. The name would seem to

indicate a Frenchman; but, whatever be his country, he is thoroughly

versed in all the languages of the day, and can express himself quite

as much to the purpose in English as in any other tongue. No sooner

were the ceremonies of salutation over than this talkative little

person put his mouth to the host’s ear and whispered three secrets of

state, an important piece of commercial intelligence, and a rich item

of fashionable scandal. He then assured the Man of Fancy that he would

not fail to circulate in the society of the lower world a minute

description of this magnificent castle in the air and of the

festivities at which he had the honor to be a guest. So saying,

Monsieur On-Dit made his bow and hurried from one to another of the

company, with all of whom he seemed to be acquainted and to possess

some topic of interest or amusement for every individual. Coming at

last to the Oldest Inhabitant, who was slumbering comfortably in the

easy-chair, he applied his mouth to that venerable ear.

“What do you say?” cried the old gentleman, starting from his nap and

putting up his hand to serve the purpose of an ear-trumpet.

Monsieur On-Dit bent forward again and repeated his communication.

“Never within my memory,” exclaimed the Oldest Inhabitant, lifting his

hands in astonishment, “has so remarkable an incident been heard of.”

Now came in the Clerk of the Weather, who had been invited out of

deference to his official station, although the host was well aware

that his conversation was likely to contribute but little to the

general enjoyment. He soon, indeed, got into a corner with his

acquaintance of long ago, the Oldest Inhabitant, and began to compare

notes with him in reference to the great storms, gales of wind, and

other atmospherical facts that had occurred during a century past. It

rejoiced the Man of Fancy that his venerable and much-respected guest

had met with so congenial an associate.

Entreating them both to make

themselves perfectly at home, he now turned to receive the Wandering

Jew. This personage, however, had latterly grown so common, by mingling

in all sorts of society and appearing at the beck of every entertainer,

that he could hardly be deemed a proper guest in a very exclusive

circle. Besides, being covered with dust from his continual wanderings

along the highways of the world, he really looked out of place in a

dress party; so that the host felt relieved of an incommodity when the

restless individual in question, after a brief stay, took his departure

on a ramble towards Oregon.

The portal was now thronged by a crowd of shadowy people with whom the

Man of Fancy had been acquainted in his visionary youth. He had invited

them hither for the sake of observing how they would compare, whether

advantageously or otherwise, with the real characters to whom his

maturer life had introduced him. They were beings of crude imagination,

such as glide before a young man’s eye and pretend to be actual

inhabitants of the earth; the wise and witty with whom he would

hereafter hold intercourse; the generous and heroic friends whose

devotion would be requited with his own; the beautiful dream-woman who

would become the helpmate of his human toils and sorrows and at once

the source and partaker of his happiness. Alas! it is not good for the

full-grown man to look too closely at these old acquaintances, but

rather to reverence them at a distance through the medium of years that

have gathered duskily between. There was something laughably untrue in

their pompous stride and exaggerated sentiment; they were neither human

nor tolerable likenesses of humanity, but fantastic maskers, rendering

heroism and nature alike ridiculous by the grave absurdity of their

pretensions to such attributes; and as for the peerless dream-lady,

behold! there advanced up the saloon, with a movement like a jointed

doll, a sort of wax-figure of an angel, a creature as cold as

moonshine, an artifice in petticoats, with an intellect of pretty

phrases and only the semblance of a heart, yet in all these particulars

the true type of a young man’s imaginary mistress. Hardly could the

host’s punctilious courtesy restrain a smile as he paid his respects to

this unreality and met the sentimental glance with which the Dream

sought to remind him of their former love passages.

“No, no, fair lady,” murmured he betwixt sighing and smiling; “my taste

is changed; I have learned to love what Nature makes better than my own

creations in the guise of womanhood.

“Ah, false one,” shrieked the dream-lady, pretending to faint, but

dissolving into thin air, out of which came the deplorable murmur of

her voice, “your inconstancy has annihilated me.”

“So be it,” said the cruel Man of Fancy to himself; “and a good

riddance too.”

Together with these shadows, and from the same region, there came an

uninvited multitude of shapes which at any time during his life had

tormented the Man of Fancy in his moods of morbid melancholy or had

haunted him in the delirium of fever. The walls of his castle in the

air were not dense enough to keep them out, nor would the strongest of

earthly architecture have availed to their exclusion. Here were those

forms of dim terror which had beset him at the entrance of life, waging

warfare with his hopes; here were strange uglinesses of earlier date,

such as haunt children in the night-time. He was particularly startled

by the vision of a deformed old black woman whom he imagined as lurking

in the garret of his native home, and who, when he was an infant, had

once come to his bedside and grinned at him in the crisis of a scarlet

fever. This same black shadow, with others almost as hideous, now

glided among the pillars of the magnificent saloon, grinning

recognition, until the man shuddered anew at the forgotten terrors of

his childhood. It amused him, however, to observe the black woman, with

the mischievous caprice peculiar to such beings, steal up to the chair

of the Oldest Inhabitant and peep into his half-dreamy mind.

“Never within my memory,” muttered that venerable personage, aghast,

“did I see such a face.”

Almost immediately after the unrealities just described, arrived a

number of guests whom incredulous readers may be inclined to rank

equally among creatures of imagination. The most noteworthy were an

incorruptible Patriot; a Scholar without pedantry; a Priest without

worldly ambition; and a Beautiful Woman without pride or coquetry; a

Married Pair whose life had never been disturbed by incongruity of

feeling; a Reformer untrammelled by his theory; and a Poet who felt no

jealousy towards other votaries of the lyre. In truth, however, the

host was not one of the cynics who consider these patterns of

excellence, without the fatal flaw, such rarities in the world; and he

had invited them to his select party chiefly out of humble deference to

the judgment of society, which pronounces them almost impossible to be

met with.

“In my younger days,” observed the Oldest Inhabitant, “such characters

might be seen at the corner of every street.

”

Be that as it might, these specimens of perfection proved to be not

half so entertaining companions as people with the ordinary allowance

of faults.

But now appeared a stranger, whom the host had no sooner recognized

than, with an abundance of courtesy unlavished on any other, he

hastened down the whole length of the saloon in order to pay him

emphatic honor. Yet he was a young man in poor attire, with no insignia

of rank or acknowledged eminence, nor anything to distinguish him among

the crowd except a high, white forehead, beneath which a pair of

deep-set eyes were glowing with warm light. It was such a light as

never illuminates the earth save when a great heart burns as the

household fire of a grand intellect. And who was he?—who but the Master

Genius for whom our country is looking anxiously into the mist of Time,

as destined to fulfil the great mission of creating an American

literature, hewing it, as it were, out of the unwrought granite of our

intellectual quarries? From him, whether moulded in the form of an epic

poem or assuming a guise altogether new as the spirit itself may

determine, we are to receive our first great original work, which shall

do all that remains to be achieved for our glory among the nations. How

this child of a mighty destiny had been discovered by the Man of Fancy

it is of little consequence to mention. Suffice it that he dwells as

yet unhonored among men, unrecognized by those who have known him from

his cradle; the noble countenance which should be distinguished by a

halo diffused around it passes daily amid the throng of people toiling

and troubling themselves about the trifles of a moment, and none pay

reverence to the worker of immortality. Nor does it matter much to him,

in his triumph over all the ages, though a generation or two of his own

times shall do themselves the wrong to disregard him.

By this time Monsieur On-Dit had caught up the stranger’s name and

destiny and was busily whispering the intelligence among the other

guests.

“Pshaw!” said one. “There can never be an American genius.”

“Pish!” cried another. “We have already as good poets as any in the

world. For my part, I desire to see no better.”

And the Oldest Inhabitant, when it was proposed to introduce him to the

Master Genius, begged to be excused, observing that a man who had been

honored with the acquaintance of Dwight, and Freneau, and Joel Barlow,

might be allowed a little austerity of taste.

The saloon was now fast filling up by the arrival of other remarkable

characters, among whom were noticed Davy Jones, the distinguished

nautical personage, and a rude, carelessly dressed, harum-scarum sort

of elderly fellow, known by the nickname of Old Harry. The latter,

however, after being shown to a dressing-room, reappeared with his gray

hair nicely combed, his clothes brushed, a clean dicky on his neck, and

altogether so changed in aspect as to merit the more respectful

appellation of Venerable Henry. Joel Doe and Richard Roe came arm in

arm, accompanied by a Man of Straw, a fictitious indorser, and several

persons who had no existence except as voters in closely contested

elections. The celebrated Seatsfield, who now entered, was at first

supposed to belong to the same brotherhood, until he made it apparent

that he was a real man of flesh and blood and had his earthly domicile

in Germany. Among the latest comers, as might reasonably be expected,

arrived a guest from the far future.

“Do you know him? do you know him?” whispered Monsieur On-Dit, who

seemed to be acquainted with everybody. “He is the representative of

Posterity,—the man of an age to come.”

“And how came he here?” asked a figure who was evidently the prototype

of the fashion-plate in a magazine, and might be taken to represent the

vanities of the passing moment. “The fellow infringes upon our rights

by coming before his time.”

“But you forget where we are,” answered the Man of Fancy, who overheard

the remark. “The lower earth, it is true, will be forbidden ground to

him for many long years hence; but a castle in the air is a sort of

no-man’s-land, where Posterity may make acquaintance with us on equal

terms.”

No sooner was his identity known than a throng of guests gathered about

Posterity, all expressing the most generous interest in his welfare,

and many boasting of the sacrifices which they had made, or were

willing to make, in his behalf. Some, with as much secrecy as possible,

desired his judgment upon certain copies of verses or great manuscript

rolls of prose; others accosted him with the familiarity of old

friends, taking it for granted that he was perfectly cognizant of their

names and characters. At length, finding himself thus beset, Posterity

was put quite beside his patience.

“Gentlemen, my good friends,” cried he, breaking loose from a misty

poet who strove to hold him by the button, “I pray you to attend to

your own business, and leave me to take care of mine! I expect to owe

you nothing, unless it be certain national debts, and other

encumbrances and impediments, physical and moral, which I shall find it

troublesome enough to remove from my path. As to your verses, pray read

them to your contemporaries. Your names are as strange to me as your

faces; and even were it otherwise,—let me whisper you a secret,—the

cold, icy memory which one generation may retain of another is but a

poor recompense to barter life for. Yet, if your heart is set on being

known to me, the surest, the only method is, to live truly and wisely

for your own age, whereby, if the native force be in you, you may

likewise live for posterity.”

“It is nonsense,” murmured the Oldest Inhabitant, who, as a man of the

past, felt jealous that all notice should be withdrawn from himself to

be lavished on the future, “sheer nonsense, to waste so much thought on

what only is to be.”

To divert the minds of his guests, who were considerably abashed by

this little incident, the Man of Fancy led them through several

apartments of the castle, receiving their compliments upon the taste

and varied magnificence that were displayed in each. One of these rooms

was filled with moonlight, which did not enter through the window, but

was the aggregate of all the moonshine that is scattered around the

earth on a summer night while no eyes are awake to enjoy its beauty.

Airy spirits had gathered it up, wherever they found it gleaming on the

broad bosom of a lake, or silvering the meanders of a stream, or

glimmering among the wind-stirred boughs of a wood, and had garnered it

in this one spacious hall. Along the walls, illuminated by the mild

intensity of the moonshine, stood a multitude of ideal statues, the

original conceptions of the great works of ancient or modern art, which

the sculptors did but imperfectly succeed in putting into marble; for

it is not to be supposed that the pure idea of an immortal creation

ceases to exist; it is only necessary to know where they are deposited

in order to obtain possession of them.—In the alcoves of another vast

apartment was arranged a splendid library, the volumes of which were

inestimable, because they consisted, not of actual performances, but of

the works which the authors only planned, without ever finding the

happy season to achieve them.

To take familiar instances, here were the

untold tales of Chaucer’s Canterbury Pilgrims; the unwritten cantos of

the Fairy Queen; the conclusion of Coleridge’s Christabel; and the

whole of Dryden’s projected epic on the subject of King Arthur. The

shelves were crowded; for it would not be too much to affirm that every

author has imagined and shaped out in his thought more and far better

works than those which actually proceeded from his pen. And here,

likewise, where the unrealized conceptions of youthful poets who died

of the very strength of their own genius before the world had caught

one inspired murmur from their lips.

When the peculiarities of the library and statue-gallery were explained

to the Oldest Inhabitant, he appeared infinitely perplexed, and

exclaimed, with more energy than usual, that he had never heard of such

a thing within his memory, and, moreover, did not at all understand how

it could be.

“But my brain, I think,” said the good old gentleman, “is getting not

so clear as it used to be. You young folks, I suppose, can see your way

through these strange matters. For my part, I give it up.”

“And so do I,” muttered the Old Harry. “It is enough to puzzle

the—Ahem!”

Making as little reply as possible to these observations, the Man of

Fancy preceded the company to another noble saloon, the pillars of

which were solid golden sunbeams taken out of the sky in the first hour

in the morning. Thus, as they retained all their living lustre, the

room was filled with the most cheerful radiance imaginable, yet not too

dazzling to be borne with comfort and delight. The windows were

beautifully adorned with curtains made of the many-colored clouds of

sunrise, all imbued with virgin light, and hanging in magnificent

festoons from the ceiling to the floor. Moreover, there were fragments

of rainbows scattered through the room; so that the guests, astonished

at one another, reciprocally saw their heads made glorious by the seven

primary hues; or, if they chose,—as who would not?—they could grasp a

rainbow in the air and convert it to their own apparel and adornment.

But the morning light and scattered rainbows were only a type and

symbol of the real wonders of the apartment. By an influence akin to

magic, yet perfectly natural, whatever means and opportunities of joy

are neglected in the lower world had been carefully gathered up and

deposited in the saloon of morning sunshine.

As may well be conceived,

therefore, there was material enough to supply, not merely a joyous

evening, but also a happy lifetime, to more than as many people as that

spacious apartment could contain. The company seemed to renew their

youth; while that pattern and proverbial standard of innocence, the

Child Unborn, frolicked to and fro among them, communicating his own

unwrinkled gayety to all who had the good fortune to witness his

gambols.

“My honored friends,” said the Man of Fancy, after they had enjoyed

themselves awhile, “I am now to request your presence in the

banqueting-hall, where a slight collation is awaiting you.”

“Ah, well said!” ejaculated a cadaverous figure, who had been invited

for no other reason than that he was pretty constantly in the habit of

dining with Duke Humphrey. “I was beginning to wonder whether a castle

in the air were provided with a kitchen.”

It was curious, in truth, to see how instantaneously the guests were

diverted from the high moral enjoyments which they had been tasting

with so much apparent zest by a suggestion of the more solid as well as

liquid delights of the festive board. They thronged eagerly in the rear

of the host, who now ushered them into a lofty and extensive hall, from

end to end of which was arranged a table, glittering all over with

innumerable dishes and drinking-vessels of gold. It is an uncertain

point whether these rich articles of plate were made for the occasion

out of molten sunbeams, or recovered from the wrecks of Spanish

galleons that had lain for ages at the bottom of the sea. The upper end

of the table was overshadowed by a canopy, beneath which was placed a

chair of elaborate magnificence, which the host himself declined to

occupy, and besought his guests to assign it to the worthiest among

them. As a suitable homage to his incalculable antiquity and eminent

distinction, the post of honor was at first tendered to the Oldest

Inhabitant. He, however, eschewed it, and requested the favor of a bowl

of gruel at a side table, where he could refresh himself with a quiet

nap. There was some little hesitation as to the next candidate, until

Posterity took the Master Genius of our country by the hand and led him

to the chair of state beneath the princely canopy. When once they

beheld him in his true place, the company acknowledged the justice of

the selection by a long thunder-roll of vehement applause.

Then was served up a banquet, combining, if not all the delicacies of

the season, yet all the rarities which careful purveyors had met with

in the flesh, fish, and vegetable markets of the land of Nowhere. The

bill of fare being unfortunately lost, we can only mention a phoenix,

roasted in its own flames, cold potted birds of paradise, ice-creams

from the Milky-Way, and whip syllabubs and flummery from the Paradise

of Fools, whereof there was a very great consumption. As for

drinkables, the temperance people contented themselves with water as

usual; but it was the water of the Fountain of Youth; the ladies sipped

Nepenthe; the lovelorn, the careworn, and the sorrow-stricken were

supplied with brimming goblets of Lethe; and it was shrewdly

conjectured that a certain golden vase, from which only the more

distinguished guests were invited to partake, contained nectar that had

been mellowing ever since the days of classical mythology. The cloth

being removed, the company, as usual, grew eloquent over their liquor

and delivered themselves of a succession of brilliant speeches,—the

task of reporting which we resign to the more adequate ability of

Counsellor Gill, whose indispensable co-operation the Man of Fancy had

taken the precaution to secure.

When the festivity of the banquet was at its most ethereal point, the

Clerk of the Weather was observed to steal from the table and thrust

his head between the purple and golden curtains of one of the windows.

“My fellow-guests,” he remarked aloud, after carefully noting the signs

of the night, “I advise such of you as live at a distance to be going

as soon as possible; for a thunder-storm is certainly at hand.”

“Mercy on me!” cried Mother Carey, who had left her brood of chickens

and come hither in gossamer drapery, with pink silk stockings. “How

shall I ever get home?”

All now was confusion and hasty departure, with but little superfluous

leave-taking. The Oldest Inhabitant, however, true to the rule of those

long past days in which his courtesy had been studied, paused on the

threshold of the meteor-lighted hall to express his vast satisfaction

at the entertainment.

“Never, within my memory,” observed the gracious old gentleman, “has it

been my good fortune to spend a pleasanter evening or in more select

society.”

The wind here took his breath away, whirled his three-cornered hat into

infinite space, and drowned what further compliments it had been his

purpose to bestow.

Many of the company had bespoken will-o’-the-wisps

to convoy them home; and the host, in his general beneficence, had

engaged the Man in the Moon, with an immense horn-lantern, to be the

guide of such desolate spinsters as could do no better for themselves.

But a blast of the rising tempest blew out all their lights in the

twinkling of an eye. How, in the darkness that ensued, the guests

contrived to get back to earth, or whether the greater part of them

contrived to get back at all, or are still wandering among clouds,

mists, and puffs of tempestuous wind, bruised by the beams and rafters

of the overthrown castle in the air, and deluded by all sorts of

unrealities, are points that concern themselves much more than the

writer or the public. People should think of these matters before they

trust themselves on a pleasure-party into the realm of Nowhere.

Chapter 4.

YOUNG GOODMAN BROWN.

Young Goodman Brown came forth at sunset into the street at Salem

village; but put his head back, after crossing the threshold, to

exchange a parting kiss with his young wife. And Faith, as the wife was

aptly named, thrust her own pretty head into the street, letting the

wind play with the pink ribbons of her cap while she called to Goodman

Brown.

“Dearest heart,” whispered she, softly and rather sadly, when her lips

were close to his ear, “prithee put off your journey until sunrise and

sleep in your own bed to-night. A lone woman is troubled with such

dreams and such thoughts that she’s afeard of herself sometimes. Pray

tarry with me this night, dear husband, of all nights in the year.”

“My love and my Faith,” replied young Goodman Brown, “of all nights in

the year, this one night must I tarry away from thee. My journey, as

thou callest it, forth and back again, must needs be done ’twixt now

and sunrise. What, my sweet, pretty wife, dost thou doubt me already,

and we but three months married?”

“Then God bless you!” said Faith, with the pink ribbons; “and may you

find all well when you come back.”

“Amen!” cried Goodman Brown. “Say thy prayers, dear Faith, and go to

bed at dusk, and no harm will come to thee.”

So they parted; and the young man pursued his way until, being about to

turn the corner by the meeting-house, he looked back and saw the head

of Faith still peeping after him with a melancholy air, in spite of her

pink ribbons.

“Poor little Faith!” thought he, for his heart smote him. “What a

wretch am I to leave her on such an errand! She talks of dreams, too.

Methought as she spoke there was trouble in her face, as if a dream had

warned her what work is to be done tonight. But no, no; ’twould kill

her to think it. Well, she’s a blessed angel on earth; and after this

one night I’ll cling to her skirts and follow her to heaven.”

With this excellent resolve for the future, Goodman Brown felt himself

justified in making more haste on his present evil purpose. He had

taken a dreary road, darkened by all the gloomiest trees of the forest,

which barely stood aside to let the narrow path creep through, and

closed immediately behind. It was all as lonely as could be; and there

is this peculiarity in such a solitude, that the traveller knows not

who may be concealed by the innumerable trunks and the thick boughs

overhead; so that with lonely footsteps he may yet be passing through

an unseen multitude.

“There may be a devilish Indian behind every tree,” said Goodman Brown

to himself; and he glanced fearfully behind him as he added, “What if

the devil himself should be at my very elbow!”

His head being turned back, he passed a crook of the road, and, looking

forward again, beheld the figure of a man, in grave and decent attire,

seated at the foot of an old tree. He arose at Goodman Brown’s approach

and walked onward side by side with him.

“You are late, Goodman Brown,” said he. “The clock of the Old South was

striking as I came through Boston, and that is full fifteen minutes

agone.”

“Faith kept me back a while,” replied the young man, with a tremor in

his voice, caused by the sudden appearance of his companion, though not

wholly unexpected.

It was now deep dusk in the forest, and deepest in that part of it

where these two were journeying. As nearly as could be discerned, the

second traveller was about fifty years old, apparently in the same rank

of life as Goodman Brown, and bearing a considerable resemblance to

him, though perhaps more in expression than features. Still they might

have been taken for father and son. And yet, though the elder person

was as simply clad as the younger, and as simple in manner too, he had

an indescribable air of one who knew the world, and who would not have

felt abashed at the governor’s dinner table or in King William’s court,

were it possible that his affairs should call him thither. But the only

thing about him that could be fixed upon as remarkable was his staff,

which bore the likeness of a great black snake, so curiously wrought

that it might almost be seen to twist and wriggle itself like a living

serpent.

This, of course, must have been an ocular deception, assisted

by the uncertain light.

“Come, Goodman Brown,” cried his fellow-traveller, “this is a dull pace

for the beginning of a journey. Take my staff, if you are so soon

weary.”

“Friend,” said the other, exchanging his slow pace for a full stop,

“having kept covenant by meeting thee here, it is my purpose now to

return whence I came. I have scruples touching the matter thou wot’st

“Sayest thou so?” replied he of the serpent, smiling apart. “Let us

walk on, nevertheless, reasoning as we go; and if I convince thee not

thou shalt turn back. We are but a little way in the forest yet.”

“Too far! too far!” exclaimed the goodman, unconsciously resuming his

walk. “My father never went into the woods on such an errand, nor his

father before him. We have been a race of honest men and good

Christians since the days of the martyrs; and shall I be the first of

the name of Brown that ever took this path and kept—”

“Such company, thou wouldst say,” observed the elder person,

interpreting his pause. “Well said, Goodman Brown! I have been as well

acquainted with your family as with ever a one among the Puritans; and

that’s no trifle to say. I helped your grandfather, the constable, when

he lashed the Quaker woman so smartly through the streets of Salem; and

it was I that brought your father a pitch-pine knot, kindled at my own

hearth, to set fire to an Indian village, in King Philip’s war. They

were my good friends, both; and many a pleasant walk have we had along

this path, and returned merrily after midnight. I would fain be friends

with you for their sake.”

“If it be as thou sayest,” replied Goodman Brown, “I marvel they never

spoke of these matters; or, verily, I marvel not, seeing that the least

rumor of the sort would have driven them from New England. We are a

people of prayer, and good works to boot, and abide no such

wickedness.”

“Wickedness or not,” said the traveller with the twisted staff, “I have

a very general acquaintance here in New England. The deacons of many a

church have drunk the communion wine with me; the selectmen of divers

towns make me their chairman; and a majority of the Great and General

Court are firm supporters of my interest. The governor and I, too—But

these are state secrets.”

“Can this be so?” cried Goodman Brown, with a stare of amazement at his

undisturbed companion. “Howbeit, I have nothing to do with the governor

and council; they have their own ways, and are no rule for a simple

husbandman like me.

But, were I to go on with thee, how should I meet

the eye of that good old man, our minister, at Salem village? Oh, his

voice would make me tremble both Sabbath day and lecture day.”

Thus far the elder traveller had listened with due gravity; but now

burst into a fit of irrepressible mirth, shaking himself so violently

that his snake-like staff actually seemed to wriggle in sympathy.

“Ha! ha! ha!” shouted he again and again; then composing himself,

“Well, go on, Goodman Brown, go on; but, prithee, don’t kill me with

laughing.”

“Well, then, to end the matter at once,” said Goodman Brown,

considerably nettled, “there is my wife, Faith. It would break her dear

little heart; and I’d rather break my own.”

“Nay, if that be the case,” answered the other, “e’en go thy ways,

Goodman Brown. I would not for twenty old women like the one hobbling

before us that Faith should come to any harm.”

As he spoke he pointed his staff at a female figure on the path, in

whom Goodman Brown recognized a very pious and exemplary dame, who had

taught him his catechism in youth, and was still his moral and

spiritual adviser, jointly with the minister and Deacon Gookin.

“A marvel, truly, that Goody Cloyse should be so far in the wilderness

at nightfall,” said he. “But with your leave, friend, I shall take a

cut through the woods until we have left this Christian woman behind.

Being a stranger to you, she might ask whom I was consorting with and

whither I was going.”

“Be it so,” said his fellow-traveller. “Betake you to the woods, and

let me keep the path.”

Accordingly the young man turned aside, but took care to watch his

companion, who advanced softly along the road until he had come within

a staff’s length of the old dame. She, meanwhile, was making the best

of her way, with singular speed for so aged a woman, and mumbling some

indistinct words—a prayer, doubtless—as she went. The traveller put

forth his staff and touched her withered neck with what seemed the

serpent’s tail.

“The devil!” screamed the pious old lady.

“Then Goody Cloyse knows her old friend?” observed the traveller,

confronting her and leaning on his writhing stick.

“Ah, forsooth, and is it your worship indeed?” cried the good dame.

“Yea, truly is it, and in the very image of my old gossip, Goodman

Brown, the grandfather of the silly fellow that now is. But—would your

worship believe it?—my broomstick hath strangely disappeared, stolen,

as I suspect, by that unhanged witch, Goody Cory, and that, too, when I

was all anointed with the juice of smallage, and cinquefoil, and wolf’s

bane.

“Mingled with fine wheat and the fat of a new-born babe,” said the

shape of old Goodman Brown.

“Ah, your worship knows the recipe,” cried the old lady, cackling

aloud. “So, as I was saying, being all ready for the meeting, and no

horse to ride on, I made up my mind to foot it; for they tell me there

is a nice young man to be taken into communion to-night. But now your

good worship will lend me your arm, and we shall be there in a

twinkling.”

“That can hardly be,” answered her friend. “I may not spare you my arm,

Goody Cloyse; but here is my staff, if you will.”

So saying, he threw it down at her feet, where, perhaps, it assumed

life, being one of the rods which its owner had formerly lent to the

Egyptian magi. Of this fact, however, Goodman Brown could not take

cognizance. He had cast up his eyes in astonishment, and, looking down

again, beheld neither Goody Cloyse nor the serpentine staff, but his

fellow-traveller alone, who waited for him as calmly as if nothing had

happened.

“That old woman taught me my catechism,” said the young man; and there

was a world of meaning in this simple comment.

They continued to walk onward, while the elder traveller exhorted his

companion to make good speed and persevere in the path, discoursing so

aptly that his arguments seemed rather to spring up in the bosom of his

auditor than to be suggested by himself. As they went, he plucked a

branch of maple to serve for a walking stick, and began to strip it of

the twigs and little boughs, which were wet with evening dew. The

moment his fingers touched them they became strangely withered and

dried up as with a week’s sunshine. Thus the pair proceeded, at a good

free pace, until suddenly, in a gloomy hollow of the road, Goodman

Brown sat himself down on the stump of a tree and refused to go any

farther.

“Friend,” said he, stubbornly, “my mind is made up. Not another step

will I budge on this errand. What if a wretched old woman do choose to

go to the devil when I thought she was going to heaven: is that any

reason why I should quit my dear Faith and go after her?”

“You will think better of this by and by,” said his acquaintance,

composedly. “Sit here and rest yourself a while; and when you feel like

moving again, there is my staff to help you along.”

Without more words, he threw his companion the maple stick, and was as

speedily out of sight as if he had vanished into the deepening gloom.

The young man sat a few moments by the roadside, applauding himself

greatly, and thinking with how clear a conscience he should meet the

minister in his morning walk, nor shrink from the eye of good old

Deacon Gookin. And what calm sleep would be his that very night, which

was to have been spent so wickedly, but so purely and sweetly now, in

the arms of Faith! Amidst these pleasant and praiseworthy meditations,

Goodman Brown heard the tramp of horses along the road, and deemed it

advisable to conceal himself within the verge of the forest, conscious

of the guilty purpose that had brought him thither, though now so

happily turned from it.

On came the hoof tramps and the voices of the riders, two grave old

voices, conversing soberly as they drew near. These mingled sounds

appeared to pass along the road, within a few yards of the young man’s

hiding-place; but, owing doubtless to the depth of the gloom at that

particular spot, neither the travellers nor their steeds were visible.

Though their figures brushed the small boughs by the wayside, it could

not be seen that they intercepted, even for a moment, the faint gleam

from the strip of bright sky athwart which they must have passed.

Goodman Brown alternately crouched and stood on tiptoe, pulling aside

the branches and thrusting forth his head as far as he durst without

discerning so much as a shadow. It vexed him the more, because he could

have sworn, were such a thing possible, that he recognized the voices

of the minister and Deacon Gookin, jogging along quietly, as they were

wont to do, when bound to some ordination or ecclesiastical council.

While yet within hearing, one of the riders stopped to pluck a switch.

“Of the two, reverend sir,” said the voice like the deacon’s, “I had

rather miss an ordination dinner than to-night’s meeting. They tell me

that some of our community are to be here from Falmouth and beyond, and

others from Connecticut and Rhode Island, besides several of the Indian

powwows, who, after their fashion, know almost as much deviltry as the

best of us. Moreover, there is a goodly young woman to be taken into

communion.”

“Mighty well, Deacon Gookin!” replied the solemn old tones of the

minister. “Spur up, or we shall be late. Nothing can be done, you know,

until I get on the ground.”

The hoofs clattered again; and the voices, talking so strangely in the

empty air, passed on through the forest, where no church had ever been

gathered or solitary Christian prayed.

Whither, then, could these holy

men be journeying so deep into the heathen wilderness? Young Goodman

Brown caught hold of a tree for support, being ready to sink down on

the ground, faint and overburdened with the heavy sickness of his

heart. He looked up to the sky, doubting whether there really was a

heaven above him. Yet there was the blue arch, and the stars

brightening in it.

“With heaven above and Faith below, I will yet stand firm against the

devil!” cried Goodman Brown.

While he still gazed upward into the deep arch of the firmament and had

lifted his hands to pray, a cloud, though no wind was stirring, hurried

across the zenith and hid the brightening stars. The blue sky was still

visible, except directly overhead, where this black mass of cloud was

sweeping swiftly northward. Aloft in the air, as if from the depths of

the cloud, came a confused and doubtful sound of voices. Once the

listener fancied that he could distinguish the accents of towns-people

of his own, men and women, both pious and ungodly, many of whom he had

met at the communion table, and had seen others rioting at the tavern.

The next moment, so indistinct were the sounds, he doubted whether he

had heard aught but the murmur of the old forest, whispering without a

wind. Then came a stronger swell of those familiar tones, heard daily

in the sunshine at Salem village, but never until now from a cloud of

night There was one voice of a young woman, uttering lamentations, yet

with an uncertain sorrow, and entreating for some favor, which,

perhaps, it would grieve her to obtain; and all the unseen multitude,

both saints and sinners, seemed to encourage her onward.

“Faith!” shouted Goodman Brown, in a voice of agony and desperation;

and the echoes of the forest mocked him, crying, “Faith! Faith!” as if

bewildered wretches were seeking her all through the wilderness.

The cry of grief, rage, and terror was yet piercing the night, when the

unhappy husband held his breath for a response. There was a scream,

drowned immediately in a louder murmur of voices, fading into far-off

laughter, as the dark cloud swept away, leaving the clear and silent

sky above Goodman Brown. But something fluttered lightly down through

the air and caught on the branch of a tree. The young man seized it,

and beheld a pink ribbon.

“My Faith is gone!” cried he, after one stupefied moment. “There is no

good on earth; and sin is but a name. Come, devil; for to thee is this

world given.

”

And, maddened with despair, so that he laughed loud and long, did

Goodman Brown grasp his staff and set forth again, at such a rate that

he seemed to fly along the forest path rather than to walk or run. The

road grew wilder and drearier and more faintly traced, and vanished at

length, leaving him in the heart of the dark wilderness, still rushing

onward with the instinct that guides mortal man to evil. The whole

forest was peopled with frightful sounds—the creaking of the trees, the

howling of wild beasts, and the yell of Indians; while sometimes the

wind tolled like a distant church bell, and sometimes gave a broad roar

around the traveller, as if all Nature were laughing him to scorn. But

he was himself the chief horror of the scene, and shrank not from its

other horrors.

“Ha! ha! ha!” roared Goodman Brown when the wind laughed at him.

“Let us hear which will laugh loudest. Think not to frighten me with

your deviltry. Come witch, come wizard, come Indian powwow, come devil

himself, and here comes Goodman Brown. You may as well fear him as he

fear you.”

In truth, all through the haunted forest there could be nothing more

frightful than the figure of Goodman Brown. On he flew among the black

pines, brandishing his staff with frenzied gestures, now giving vent to

an inspiration of horrid blasphemy, and now shouting forth such

laughter as set all the echoes of the forest laughing like demons

around him. The fiend in his own shape is less hideous than when he

rages in the breast of man. Thus sped the demoniac on his course,

until, quivering among the trees, he saw a red light before him, as

when the felled trunks and branches of a clearing have been set on

fire, and throw up their lurid blaze against the sky, at the hour of

midnight. He paused, in a lull of the tempest that had driven him

onward, and heard the swell of what seemed a hymn, rolling solemnly

from a distance with the weight of many voices. He knew the tune; it

was a familiar one in the choir of the village meeting-house. The verse

died heavily away, and was lengthened by a chorus, not of human voices,

but of all the sounds of the benighted wilderness pealing in awful

harmony together. Goodman Brown cried out, and his cry was lost to his

own ear by its unison with the cry of the desert.

In the interval of silence he stole forward until the light glared full

upon his eyes.

At one extremity of an open space, hemmed in by the dark

wall of the forest, arose a rock, bearing some rude, natural

resemblance either to an altar or a pulpit, and surrounded by four

blazing pines, their tops aflame, their stems untouched, like candles

at an evening meeting. The mass of foliage that had overgrown the

summit of the rock was all on fire, blazing high into the night and

fitfully illuminating the whole field. Each pendent twig and leafy

festoon was in a blaze. As the red light arose and fell, a numerous

congregation alternately shone forth, then disappeared in shadow, and

again grew, as it were, out of the darkness, peopling the heart of the

solitary woods at once.

“A grave and dark-clad company,” quoth Goodman Brown.

In truth they were such. Among them, quivering to and fro between gloom

and splendor, appeared faces that would be seen next day at the council

board of the province, and others which, Sabbath after Sabbath, looked

devoutly heavenward, and benignantly over the crowded pews, from the

holiest pulpits in the land. Some affirm that the lady of the governor

was there. At least there were high dames well known to her, and wives

of honored husbands, and widows, a great multitude, and ancient

maidens, all of excellent repute, and fair young girls, who trembled

lest their mothers should espy them. Either the sudden gleams of light

flashing over the obscure field bedazzled Goodman Brown, or he

recognized a score of the church members of Salem village famous for

their especial sanctity. Good old Deacon Gookin had arrived, and waited

at the skirts of that venerable saint, his revered pastor. But,

irreverently consorting with these grave, reputable, and pious people,

these elders of the church, these chaste dames and dewy virgins, there

were men of dissolute lives and women of spotted fame, wretches given

over to all mean and filthy vice, and suspected even of horrid crimes.

It was strange to see that the good shrank not from the wicked, nor

were the sinners abashed by the saints. Scattered also among their

pale-faced enemies were the Indian priests, or powwows, who had often

scared their native forest with more hideous incantations than any

known to English witchcraft.

“But where is Faith?” thought Goodman Brown; and, as hope came into his

heart, he trembled.

Another verse of the hymn arose, a slow and mournful strain, such as

the pious love, but joined to words which expressed all that our nature

can conceive of sin, and darkly hinted at far more. Unfathomable to

mere mortals is the lore of fiends.

Verse after verse was sung; and

still the chorus of the desert swelled between like the deepest tone of

a mighty organ; and with the final peal of that dreadful anthem there

came a sound, as if the roaring wind, the rushing streams, the howling

beasts, and every other voice of the unconcerted wilderness were

mingling and according with the voice of guilty man in homage to the

prince of all. The four blazing pines threw up a loftier flame, and

obscurely discovered shapes and visages of horror on the smoke wreaths

above the impious assembly. At the same moment the fire on the rock

shot redly forth and formed a glowing arch above its base, where now

appeared a figure. With reverence be it spoken, the figure bore no

slight similitude, both in garb and manner, to some grave divine of the

New England churches.

“Bring forth the converts!” cried a voice that echoed through the field

and rolled into the forest.

At the word, Goodman Brown stepped forth from the shadow of the trees

and approached the congregation, with whom he felt a loathful

brotherhood by the sympathy of all that was wicked in his heart. He

could have well-nigh sworn that the shape of his own dead father

beckoned him to advance, looking downward from a smoke wreath, while a

woman, with dim features of despair, threw out her hand to warn him

back. Was it his mother? But he had no power to retreat one step, nor

to resist, even in thought, when the minister and good old Deacon

Gookin seized his arms and led him to the blazing rock. Thither came

also the slender form of a veiled female, led between Goody Cloyse,

that pious teacher of the catechism, and Martha Carrier, who had

received the devil’s promise to be queen of hell. A rampant hag was

she. And there stood the proselytes beneath the canopy of fire.

“Welcome, my children,” said the dark figure, “to the communion of your

race. Ye have found thus young your nature and your destiny. My

children, look behind you!”

They turned; and flashing forth, as it were, in a sheet of flame, the

fiend worshippers were seen; the smile of welcome gleamed darkly on

every visage.

“There,” resumed the sable form, “are all whom ye have reverenced from

youth. Ye deemed them holier than yourselves, and shrank from your own

sin, contrasting it with their lives of righteousness and prayerful

aspirations heavenward. Yet here are they all in my worshipping

assembly.

This night it shall be granted you to know their secret

deeds: how hoary-bearded elders of the church have whispered wanton

words to the young maids of their households; how many a woman, eager

for widows’ weeds, has given her husband a drink at bedtime and let him

sleep his last sleep in her bosom; how beardless youths have made haste

to inherit their fathers’ wealth; and how fair damsels—blush not, sweet

ones—have dug little graves in the garden, and bidden me, the sole

guest to an infant’s funeral. By the sympathy of your human hearts for

sin ye shall scent out all the places—whether in church, bedchamber,

street, field, or forest—where crime has been committed, and shall

exult to behold the whole earth one stain of guilt, one mighty blood

spot. Far more than this. It shall be yours to penetrate, in every

bosom, the deep mystery of sin, the fountain of all wicked arts, and

which inexhaustibly supplies more evil impulses than human power—than

my power at its utmost—can make manifest in deeds. And now, my

children, look upon each other.”

They did so; and, by the blaze of the hell-kindled torches, the

wretched man beheld his Faith, and the wife her husband, trembling

before that unhallowed altar.

“Lo, there ye stand, my children,” said the figure, in a deep and

solemn tone, almost sad with its despairing awfulness, as if his once

angelic nature could yet mourn for our miserable race. “Depending upon

one another’s hearts, ye had still hoped that virtue were not all a

dream. Now are ye undeceived. Evil is the nature of mankind. Evil must

be your only happiness. Welcome again, my children, to the communion of

your race.”

“Welcome,” repeated the fiend worshippers, in one cry of despair and

triumph.

And there they stood, the only pair, as it seemed, who were yet

hesitating on the verge of wickedness in this dark world. A basin was

hollowed, naturally, in the rock. Did it contain water, reddened by the

lurid light? or was it blood? or, perchance, a liquid flame? Herein did

the shape of evil dip his hand and prepare to lay the mark of baptism

upon their foreheads, that they might be partakers of the mystery of

sin, more conscious of the secret guilt of others, both in deed and

thought, than they could now be of their own. The husband cast one look

at his pale wife, and Faith at him. What polluted wretches would the

next glance show them to each other, shuddering alike at what they

disclosed and what they saw!

“Faith! Faith!” cried the husband, “look up to heaven, and resist the

wicked one.”

Whether Faith obeyed he knew not.

Hardly had he spoken when he found

himself amid calm night and solitude, listening to a roar of the wind

which died heavily away through the forest. He staggered against the

rock, and felt it chill and damp; while a hanging twig, that had been

all on fire, besprinkled his cheek with the coldest dew.

The next morning young Goodman Brown came slowly into the street of

Salem village, staring around him like a bewildered man. The good old

minister was taking a walk along the graveyard to get an appetite for

breakfast and meditate his sermon, and bestowed a blessing, as he

passed, on Goodman Brown. He shrank from the venerable saint as if to

avoid an anathema. Old Deacon Gookin was at domestic worship, and the

holy words of his prayer were heard through the open window. “What God

doth the wizard pray to?” quoth Goodman Brown. Goody Cloyse, that

excellent old Christian, stood in the early sunshine at her own

lattice, catechizing a little girl who had brought her a pint of

morning’s milk. Goodman Brown snatched away the child as from the grasp

of the fiend himself. Turning the corner by the meeting-house, he spied

the head of Faith, with the pink ribbons, gazing anxiously forth, and

bursting into such joy at sight of him that she skipped along the

street and almost kissed her husband before the whole village. But

Goodman Brown looked sternly and sadly into her face, and passed on

without a greeting.

Had Goodman Brown fallen asleep in the forest and only dreamed a wild

dream of a witch-meeting?

Be it so if you will; but, alas! it was a dream of evil omen for young

Goodman Brown. A stern, a sad, a darkly meditative, a distrustful, if

not a desperate man did he become from the night of that fearful dream.

On the Sabbath day, when the congregation were singing a holy psalm, he

could not listen because an anthem of sin rushed loudly upon his ear

and drowned all the blessed strain. When the minister spoke from the

pulpit with power and fervid eloquence, and, with his hand on the open

Bible, of the sacred truths of our religion, and of saint-like lives

and triumphant deaths, and of future bliss or misery unutterable, then

did Goodman Brown turn pale, dreading lest the roof should thunder down

upon the gray blasphemer and his hearers. Often, waking suddenly at

midnight, he shrank from the bosom of Faith; and at morning or

eventide, when the family knelt down at prayer, he scowled and muttered

to himself, and gazed sternly at his wife, and turned away.

And when he

had lived long, and was borne to his grave a hoary corpse, followed by

Faith, an aged woman, and children and grandchildren, a goodly

procession, besides neighbors not a few, they carved no hopeful verse

upon his tombstone, for his dying hour was gloom.

Chapter 5.

RAPPACCINI’S DAUGHTER.

A young man, named Giovanni Guasconti, came, very long ago, from the

more southern region of Italy, to pursue his studies at the University

of Padua. Giovanni, who had but a scanty supply of gold ducats in his

pocket, took lodgings in a high and gloomy chamber of an old edifice

which looked not unworthy to have been the palace of a Paduan noble,

and which, in fact, exhibited over its entrance the armorial bearings

of a family long since extinct. The young stranger, who was not

unstudied in the great poem of his country, recollected that one of the

ancestors of this family, and perhaps an occupant of this very mansion,

had been pictured by Dante as a partaker of the immortal agonies of his

Inferno. These reminiscences and associations, together with the

tendency to heartbreak natural to a young man for the first time out of

his native sphere, caused Giovanni to sigh heavily as he looked around

the desolate and ill-furnished apartment.

“Holy Virgin, signor!” cried old Dame Lisabetta, who, won by the

youth’s remarkable beauty of person, was kindly endeavoring to give the

chamber a habitable air, “what a sigh was that to come out of a young

man’s heart! Do you find this old mansion gloomy? For the love of

Heaven, then, put your head out of the window, and you will see as

bright sunshine as you have left in Naples.”

Guasconti mechanically did as the old woman advised, but could not

quite agree with her that the Paduan sunshine was as cheerful as that

of southern Italy. Such as it was, however, it fell upon a garden

beneath the window and expended its fostering influences on a variety

of plants, which seemed to have been cultivated with exceeding care.

“Does this garden belong to the house?” asked Giovanni.

“Heaven forbid, signor, unless it were fruitful of better pot herbs

than any that grow there now,” answered old Lisabetta. “No; that garden

is cultivated by the own hands of Signor Giacomo Rappaccini, the famous

doctor, who, I warrant him, has been heard of as far as Naples. It is

said that he distils these plants into medicines that are as potent as

a charm. Oftentimes you may see the signor doctor at work, and

perchance the signora, his daughter, too, gathering the strange flowers

that grow in the garden.

”

The old woman had now done what she could for the aspect of the

chamber; and, commending the young man to the protection of the saints,

took her departure.

Giovanni still found no better occupation than to look down into the

garden beneath his window. From its appearance, he judged it to be one

of those botanic gardens which were of earlier date in Padua than

elsewhere in Italy or in the world. Or, not improbably, it might once

have been the pleasure-place of an opulent family; for there was the

ruin of a marble fountain in the centre, sculptured with rare art, but

so wofully shattered that it was impossible to trace the original

design from the chaos of remaining fragments. The water, however,

continued to gush and sparkle into the sunbeams as cheerfully as ever.

A little gurgling sound ascended to the young man’s window, and made

him feel as if the fountain were an immortal spirit that sung its song

unceasingly and without heeding the vicissitudes around it, while one

century imbodied it in marble and another scattered the perishable

garniture on the soil. All about the pool into which the water subsided

grew various plants, that seemed to require a plentiful supply of

moisture for the nourishment of gigantic leaves, and in some instances,

flowers gorgeously magnificent. There was one shrub in particular, set

in a marble vase in the midst of the pool, that bore a profusion of

purple blossoms, each of which had the lustre and richness of a gem;

and the whole together made a show so resplendent that it seemed enough

to illuminate the garden, even had there been no sunshine. Every

portion of the soil was peopled with plants and herbs, which, if less

beautiful, still bore tokens of assiduous care, as if all had their

individual virtues, known to the scientific mind that fostered them.

Some were placed in urns, rich with old carving, and others in common

garden pots; some crept serpent-like along the ground or climbed on

high, using whatever means of ascent was offered them. One plant had

wreathed itself round a statue of Vertumnus, which was thus quite

veiled and shrouded in a drapery of hanging foliage, so happily

arranged that it might have served a sculptor for a study.

While Giovanni stood at the window he heard a rustling behind a screen

of leaves, and became aware that a person was at work in the garden.

His figure soon emerged into view, and showed itself to be that of no

common laborer, but a tall, emaciated, sallow, and sickly-looking man,

dressed in a scholar’s garb of black.

He was beyond the middle term of

life, with gray hair, a thin, gray beard, and a face singularly marked

with intellect and cultivation, but which could never, even in his more

youthful days, have expressed much warmth of heart.

Nothing could exceed the intentness with which this scientific gardener

examined every shrub which grew in his path: it seemed as if he was

looking into their inmost nature, making observations in regard to

their creative essence, and discovering why one leaf grew in this shape

and another in that, and wherefore such and such flowers differed among

themselves in hue and perfume. Nevertheless, in spite of this deep

intelligence on his part, there was no approach to intimacy between

himself and these vegetable existences. On the contrary, he avoided

their actual touch or the direct inhaling of their odors with a caution

that impressed Giovanni most disagreeably; for the man’s demeanor was

that of one walking among malignant influences, such as savage beasts,

or deadly snakes, or evil spirits, which, should he allow them one

moment of license, would wreak upon him some terrible fatality. It was

strangely frightful to the young man’s imagination to see this air of

insecurity in a person cultivating a garden, that most simple and

innocent of human toils, and which had been alike the joy and labor of

the unfallen parents of the race. Was this garden, then, the Eden of

the present world? And this man, with such a perception of harm in what

his own hands caused to grow,—was he the Adam?

The distrustful gardener, while plucking away the dead leaves or

pruning the too luxuriant growth of the shrubs, defended his hands with

a pair of thick gloves. Nor were these his only armor. When, in his

walk through the garden, he came to the magnificent plant that hung its

purple gems beside the marble fountain, he placed a kind of mask over

his mouth and nostrils, as if all this beauty did but conceal a

deadlier malice; but, finding his task still too dangerous, he drew

back, removed the mask, and called loudly, but in the infirm voice of a

person affected with inward disease, “Beatrice! Beatrice!”

“Here am I, my father. What would you?” cried a rich and youthful voice

from the window of the opposite house—a voice as rich as a tropical

sunset, and which made Giovanni, though he knew not why, think of deep

hues of purple or crimson and of perfumes heavily delectable. “Are you

in the garden?”

“Yes, Beatrice,” answered the gardener, “and I need your help.

”

Soon there emerged from under a sculptured portal the figure of a young

girl, arrayed with as much richness of taste as the most splendid of

the flowers, beautiful as the day, and with a bloom so deep and vivid

that one shade more would have been too much. She looked redundant with

life, health, and energy; all of which attributes were bound down and

compressed, as it were and girdled tensely, in their luxuriance, by her

virgin zone. Yet Giovanni’s fancy must have grown morbid while he

looked down into the garden; for the impression which the fair stranger

made upon him was as if here were another flower, the human sister of

those vegetable ones, as beautiful as they, more beautiful than the

richest of them, but still to be touched only with a glove, nor to be

approached without a mask. As Beatrice came down the garden path, it

was observable that she handled and inhaled the odor of several of the

plants which her father had most sedulously avoided.

“Here, Beatrice,” said the latter, “see how many needful offices

require to be done to our chief treasure. Yet, shattered as I am, my

life might pay the penalty of approaching it so closely as

circumstances demand. Henceforth, I fear, this plant must be consigned

to your sole charge.”

“And gladly will I undertake it,” cried again the rich tones of the

young lady, as she bent towards the magnificent plant and opened her

arms as if to embrace it. “Yes, my sister, my splendour, it shall be

Beatrice’s task to nurse and serve thee; and thou shalt reward her with

thy kisses and perfumed breath, which to her is as the breath of life.”

Then, with all the tenderness in her manner that was so strikingly

expressed in her words, she busied herself with such attentions as the

plant seemed to require; and Giovanni, at his lofty window, rubbed his

eyes and almost doubted whether it were a girl tending her favorite

flower, or one sister performing the duties of affection to another.

The scene soon terminated. Whether Dr. Rappaccini had finished his

labors in the garden, or that his watchful eye had caught the

stranger’s face, he now took his daughter’s arm and retired. Night was

already closing in; oppressive exhalations seemed to proceed from the

plants and steal upward past the open window; and Giovanni, closing the

lattice, went to his couch and dreamed of a rich flower and beautiful

girl. Flower and maiden were different, and yet the same, and fraught

with some strange peril in either shape.

But there is an influence in the light of morning that tends to rectify

whatever errors of fancy, or even of judgment, we may have incurred

during the sun’s decline, or among the shadows of the night, or in the

less wholesome glow of moonshine. Giovanni’s first movement, on

starting from sleep, was to throw open the window and gaze down into

the garden which his dreams had made so fertile of mysteries. He was

surprised and a little ashamed to find how real and matter-of-fact an

affair it proved to be, in the first rays of the sun which gilded the

dew-drops that hung upon leaf and blossom, and, while giving a brighter

beauty to each rare flower, brought everything within the limits of

ordinary experience. The young man rejoiced that, in the heart of the

barren city, he had the privilege of overlooking this spot of lovely

and luxuriant vegetation. It would serve, he said to himself, as a

symbolic language to keep him in communion with Nature. Neither the

sickly and thoughtworn Dr. Giacomo Rappaccini, it is true, nor his

brilliant daughter, were now visible; so that Giovanni could not

determine how much of the singularity which he attributed to both was

due to their own qualities and how much to his wonder-working fancy;

but he was inclined to take a most rational view of the whole matter.

In the course of the day he paid his respects to Signor Pietro

Baglioni, professor of medicine in the university, a physician of

eminent repute to whom Giovanni had brought a letter of introduction.

The professor was an elderly personage, apparently of genial nature,

and habits that might almost be called jovial. He kept the young man to

dinner, and made himself very agreeable by the freedom and liveliness

of his conversation, especially when warmed by a flask or two of Tuscan

wine. Giovanni, conceiving that men of science, inhabitants of the same

city, must needs be on familiar terms with one another, took an

opportunity to mention the name of Dr. Rappaccini. But the professor

did not respond with so much cordiality as he had anticipated.

“Ill would it become a teacher of the divine art of medicine,” said

Professor Pietro Baglioni, in answer to a question of Giovanni, “to

withhold due and well-considered praise of a physician so eminently

skilled as Rappaccini; but, on the other hand, I should answer it but

scantily to my conscience were I to permit a worthy youth like

yourself, Signor Giovanni, the son of an ancient friend, to imbibe

erroneous ideas respecting a man who might hereafter chance to hold

your life and death in his hands. The truth is, our worshipful Dr.

Rappaccini has as much science as any member of the faculty—with

perhaps one single exception—in Padua, or all Italy; but there are

certain grave objections to his professional character.”

“And what are they?” asked the young man.

“Has my friend Giovanni any disease of body or heart, that he is so

inquisitive about physicians?” said the professor, with a smile. “But

as for Rappaccini, it is said of him—and I, who know the man well, can

answer for its truth—that he cares infinitely more for science than for

mankind. His patients are interesting to him only as subjects for some

new experiment. He would sacrifice human life, his own among the rest,

or whatever else was dearest to him, for the sake of adding so much as

a grain of mustard seed to the great heap of his accumulated

knowledge.”

“Methinks he is an awful man indeed,” remarked Guasconti, mentally

recalling the cold and purely intellectual aspect of Rappaccini. “And

yet, worshipful professor, is it not a noble spirit? Are there many men

capable of so spiritual a love of science?”

“God forbid,” answered the professor, somewhat testily; “at least,

unless they take sounder views of the healing art than those adopted by

Rappaccini. It is his theory that all medicinal virtues are comprised

within those substances which we term vegetable poisons. These he

cultivates with his own hands, and is said even to have produced new

varieties of poison, more horribly deleterious than Nature, without the

assistance of this learned person, would ever have plagued the world

withal. That the signor doctor does less mischief than might be

expected with such dangerous substances is undeniable. Now and then, it

must be owned, he has effected, or seemed to effect, a marvellous cure;

but, to tell you my private mind, Signor Giovanni, he should receive

little credit for such instances of success,—they being probably the

work of chance,—but should be held strictly accountable for his

failures, which may justly be considered his own work.”

The youth might have taken Baglioni’s opinions with many grains of

allowance had he known that there was a professional warfare of long

continuance between him and Dr. Rappaccini, in which the latter was

generally thought to have gained the advantage. If the reader be

inclined to judge for himself, we refer him to certain black-letter

tracts on both sides, preserved in the medical department of the

University of Padua.

“I know not, most learned professor,” returned Giovanni, after musing

on what had been said of Rappaccini’s exclusive zeal for science,—“I

know not how dearly this physician may love his art; but surely there

is one object more dear to him. He has a daughter.”

“Aha!” cried the professor, with a laugh. “So now our friend Giovanni’s

secret is out. You have heard of this daughter, whom all the young men

in Padua are wild about, though not half a dozen have ever had the good

hap to see her face. I know little of the Signora Beatrice save that

Rappaccini is said to have instructed her deeply in his science, and

that, young and beautiful as fame reports her, she is already qualified

to fill a professor’s chair. Perchance her father destines her for

mine! Other absurd rumors there be, not worth talking about or

listening to. So now, Signor Giovanni, drink off your glass of

lachryma.”

Guasconti returned to his lodgings somewhat heated with the wine he had

quaffed, and which caused his brain to swim with strange fantasies in

reference to Dr. Rappaccini and the beautiful Beatrice. On his way,

happening to pass by a florist’s, he bought a fresh bouquet of flowers.

Ascending to his chamber, he seated himself near the window, but within

the shadow thrown by the depth of the wall, so that he could look down

into the garden with little risk of being discovered. All beneath his

eye was a solitude. The strange plants were basking in the sunshine,

and now and then nodding gently to one another, as if in acknowledgment

of sympathy and kindred. In the midst, by the shattered fountain, grew

the magnificent shrub, with its purple gems clustering all over it;

they glowed in the air, and gleamed back again out of the depths of the

pool, which thus seemed to overflow with colored radiance from the rich

reflection that was steeped in it. At first, as we have said, the

garden was a solitude. Soon, however,—as Giovanni had half hoped, half

feared, would be the case,—a figure appeared beneath the antique

sculptured portal, and came down between the rows of plants, inhaling

their various perfumes as if she were one of those beings of old

classic fable that lived upon sweet odors. On again beholding Beatrice,

the young man was even startled to perceive how much her beauty

exceeded his recollection of it; so brilliant, so vivid, was its

character, that she glowed amid the sunlight, and, as Giovanni

whispered to himself, positively illuminated the more shadowy intervals

of the garden path.

Her face being now more revealed than on the former

occasion, he was struck by its expression of simplicity and

sweetness,—qualities that had not entered into his idea of her

character, and which made him ask anew what manner of mortal she might

be. Nor did he fail again to observe, or imagine, an analogy between

the beautiful girl and the gorgeous shrub that hung its gemlike flowers

over the fountain,—a resemblance which Beatrice seemed to have indulged

a fantastic humor in heightening, both by the arrangement of her dress

and the selection of its hues.

Approaching the shrub, she threw open her arms, as with a passionate

ardor, and drew its branches into an intimate embrace—so intimate that

her features were hidden in its leafy bosom and her glistening ringlets

all intermingled with the flowers.

“Give me thy breath, my sister,” exclaimed Beatrice; “for I am faint

with common air. And give me this flower of thine, which I separate

with gentlest fingers from the stem and place it close beside my

heart.”

With these words the beautiful daughter of Rappaccini plucked one of

the richest blossoms of the shrub, and was about to fasten it in her

bosom. But now, unless Giovanni’s draughts of wine had bewildered his

senses, a singular incident occurred. A small orange-colored reptile,

of the lizard or chameleon species, chanced to be creeping along the

path, just at the feet of Beatrice. It appeared to Giovanni,—but, at

the distance from which he gazed, he could scarcely have seen anything

so minute,—it appeared to him, however, that a drop or two of moisture

from the broken stem of the flower descended upon the lizard’s head.

For an instant the reptile contorted itself violently, and then lay

motionless in the sunshine. Beatrice observed this remarkable

phenomenon and crossed herself, sadly, but without surprise; nor did

she therefore hesitate to arrange the fatal flower in her bosom. There

it blushed, and almost glimmered with the dazzling effect of a precious

stone, adding to her dress and aspect the one appropriate charm which

nothing else in the world could have supplied. But Giovanni, out of the

shadow of his window, bent forward and shrank back, and murmured and

trembled.

“Am I awake? Have I my senses?” said he to himself. “What is this

being? Beautiful shall I call her, or inexpressibly terrible?”

Beatrice now strayed carelessly through the garden, approaching closer

beneath Giovanni’s window, so that he was compelled to thrust his head

quite out of its concealment in order to gratify the intense and

painful curiosity which she excited.

At this moment there came a

beautiful insect over the garden wall; it had, perhaps, wandered

through the city, and found no flowers or verdure among those antique

haunts of men until the heavy perfumes of Dr. Rappaccini’s shrubs had

lured it from afar. Without alighting on the flowers, this winged

brightness seemed to be attracted by Beatrice, and lingered in the air

and fluttered about her head. Now, here it could not be but that

Giovanni Guasconti’s eyes deceived him. Be that as it might, he fancied

that, while Beatrice was gazing at the insect with childish delight, it

grew faint and fell at her feet; its bright wings shivered; it was

dead—from no cause that he could discern, unless it were the atmosphere

of her breath. Again Beatrice crossed herself and sighed heavily as she

bent over the dead insect.

An impulsive movement of Giovanni drew her eyes to the window. There

she beheld the beautiful head of the young man—rather a Grecian than an

Italian head, with fair, regular features, and a glistening of gold

among his ringlets—gazing down upon her like a being that hovered in

mid air. Scarcely knowing what he did, Giovanni threw down the bouquet

which he had hitherto held in his hand.

“Signora,” said he, “there are pure and healthful flowers. Wear them

for the sake of Giovanni Guasconti.”

“Thanks, signor,” replied Beatrice, with her rich voice, that came

forth as it were like a gush of music, and with a mirthful expression

half childish and half woman-like. “I accept your gift, and would fain

recompense it with this precious purple flower; but if I toss it into

the air it will not reach you. So Signor Guasconti must even content

himself with my thanks.”

She lifted the bouquet from the ground, and then, as if inwardly

ashamed at having stepped aside from her maidenly reserve to respond to

a stranger’s greeting, passed swiftly homeward through the garden. But

few as the moments were, it seemed to Giovanni, when she was on the

point of vanishing beneath the sculptured portal, that his beautiful

bouquet was already beginning to wither in her grasp. It was an idle

thought; there could be no possibility of distinguishing a faded flower

from a fresh one at so great a distance.

For many days after this incident the young man avoided the window that

looked into Dr. Rappaccini’s garden, as if something ugly and monstrous

would have blasted his eyesight had he been betrayed into a glance. He

felt conscious of having put himself, to a certain extent, within the

influence of an unintelligible power by the communication which he had

opened with Beatrice.

The wisest course would have been, if his heart

were in any real danger, to quit his lodgings and Padua itself at once;

the next wiser, to have accustomed himself, as far as possible, to the

familiar and daylight view of Beatrice—thus bringing her rigidly and

systematically within the limits of ordinary experience. Least of all,

while avoiding her sight, ought Giovanni to have remained so near this

extraordinary being that the proximity and possibility even of

intercourse should give a kind of substance and reality to the wild

vagaries which his imagination ran riot continually in producing.

Guasconti had not a deep heart—or, at all events, its depths were not

sounded now; but he had a quick fancy, and an ardent southern

temperament, which rose every instant to a higher fever pitch. Whether

or no Beatrice possessed those terrible attributes, that fatal breath,

the affinity with those so beautiful and deadly flowers which were

indicated by what Giovanni had witnessed, she had at least instilled a

fierce and subtle poison into his system. It was not love, although her

rich beauty was a madness to him; nor horror, even while he fancied her

spirit to be imbued with the same baneful essence that seemed to

pervade her physical frame; but a wild offspring of both love and

horror that had each parent in it, and burned like one and shivered

like the other. Giovanni knew not what to dread; still less did he know

what to hope; yet hope and dread kept a continual warfare in his

breast, alternately vanquishing one another and starting up afresh to

renew the contest. Blessed are all simple emotions, be they dark or

bright! It is the lurid intermixture of the two that produces the

illuminating blaze of the infernal regions.

Sometimes he endeavored to assuage the fever of his spirit by a rapid

walk through the streets of Padua or beyond its gates: his footsteps

kept time with the throbbings of his brain, so that the walk was apt to

accelerate itself to a race. One day he found himself arrested; his arm

was seized by a portly personage, who had turned back on recognizing

the young man and expended much breath in overtaking him.

“Signor Giovanni! Stay, my young friend!” cried he. “Have you forgotten

me? That might well be the case if I were as much altered as yourself.”

It was Baglioni, whom Giovanni had avoided ever since their first

meeting, from a doubt that the professor’s sagacity would look too

deeply into his secrets. Endeavoring to recover himself, he stared

forth wildly from his inner world into the outer one and spoke like a

man in a dream.

“Yes; I am Giovanni Guasconti. You are Professor Pietro Baglioni. Now

let me pass!”

“Not yet, not yet, Signor Giovanni Guasconti,” said the professor,

smiling, but at the same time scrutinizing the youth with an earnest

glance. “What! did I grow up side by side with your father? and shall

his son pass me like a stranger in these old streets of Padua? Stand

still, Signor Giovanni; for we must have a word or two before we part.”

“Speedily, then, most worshipful professor, speedily,” said Giovanni,

with feverish impatience. “Does not your worship see that I am in

haste?”

Now, while he was speaking there came a man in black along the street,

stooping and moving feebly like a person in inferior health. His face

was all overspread with a most sickly and sallow hue, but yet so

pervaded with an expression of piercing and active intellect that an

observer might easily have overlooked the merely physical attributes

and have seen only this wonderful energy. As he passed, this person

exchanged a cold and distant salutation with Baglioni, but fixed his

eyes upon Giovanni with an intentness that seemed to bring out whatever

was within him worthy of notice. Nevertheless, there was a peculiar

quietness in the look, as if taking merely a speculative, not a human

interest, in the young man.

“It is Dr. Rappaccini!” whispered the professor when the stranger had

passed. “Has he ever seen your face before?”

“Not that I know,” answered Giovanni, starting at the name.

“He HAS seen you! he must have seen you!” said Baglioni, hastily. “For

some purpose or other, this man of science is making a study of you. I

know that look of his! It is the same that coldly illuminates his face

as he bends over a bird, a mouse, or a butterfly, which, in pursuance

of some experiment, he has killed by the perfume of a flower; a look as

deep as Nature itself, but without Nature’s warmth of love. Signor

Giovanni, I will stake my life upon it, you are the subject of one of

Rappaccini’s experiments!”

“Will you make a fool of me?” cried Giovanni, passionately. “THAT,

signor professor, were an untoward experiment.”

“Patience! patience!” replied the imperturbable professor. “I tell

thee, my poor Giovanni, that Rappaccini has a scientific interest in

thee. Thou hast fallen into fearful hands! And the Signora

Beatrice,—what part does she act in this mystery?”

But Guasconti, finding Baglioni’s pertinacity intolerable, here broke

away, and was gone before the professor could again seize his arm. He

looked after the young man intently and shook his head.

“This must not be,” said Baglioni to himself.

“The youth is the son of

my old friend, and shall not come to any harm from which the arcana of

medical science can preserve him. Besides, it is too insufferable an

impertinence in Rappaccini, thus to snatch the lad out of my own hands,

as I may say, and make use of him for his infernal experiments. This

daughter of his! It shall be looked to. Perchance, most learned

Rappaccini, I may foil you where you little dream of it!”

Meanwhile Giovanni had pursued a circuitous route, and at length found

himself at the door of his lodgings. As he crossed the threshold he was

met by old Lisabetta, who smirked and smiled, and was evidently

desirous to attract his attention; vainly, however, as the ebullition

of his feelings had momentarily subsided into a cold and dull vacuity.

He turned his eyes full upon the withered face that was puckering

itself into a smile, but seemed to behold it not. The old dame,

therefore, laid her grasp upon his cloak.

“Signor! signor!” whispered she, still with a smile over the whole

breadth of her visage, so that it looked not unlike a grotesque carving

in wood, darkened by centuries. “Listen, signor! There is a private

entrance into the garden!”

“What do you say?” exclaimed Giovanni, turning quickly about, as if an

inanimate thing should start into feverish life. “A private entrance

into Dr. Rappaccini’s garden?”

“Hush! hush! not so loud!” whispered Lisabetta, putting her hand over

his mouth. “Yes; into the worshipful doctor’s garden, where you may see

all his fine shrubbery. Many a young man in Padua would give gold to be

admitted among those flowers.”

Giovanni put a piece of gold into her hand.

“Show me the way,” said he.

A surmise, probably excited by his conversation with Baglioni, crossed

his mind, that this interposition of old Lisabetta might perchance be

connected with the intrigue, whatever were its nature, in which the

professor seemed to suppose that Dr. Rappaccini was involving him. But

such a suspicion, though it disturbed Giovanni, was inadequate to

restrain him. The instant that he was aware of the possibility of

approaching Beatrice, it seemed an absolute necessity of his existence

to do so.

It mattered not whether she were angel or demon; he was

irrevocably within her sphere, and must obey the law that whirled him

onward, in ever-lessening circles, towards a result which he did not

attempt to foreshadow; and yet, strange to say, there came across him a

sudden doubt whether this intense interest on his part were not

delusory; whether it were really of so deep and positive a nature as to

justify him in now thrusting himself into an incalculable position;

whether it were not merely the fantasy of a young man’s brain, only

slightly or not at all connected with his heart.

He paused, hesitated, turned half about, but again went on. His

withered guide led him along several obscure passages, and finally

undid a door, through which, as it was opened, there came the sight and

sound of rustling leaves, with the broken sunshine glimmering among

them. Giovanni stepped forth, and, forcing himself through the

entanglement of a shrub that wreathed its tendrils over the hidden

entrance, stood beneath his own window in the open area of Dr.

Rappaccini’s garden.

How often is it the case that, when impossibilities have come to pass

and dreams have condensed their misty substance into tangible

realities, we find ourselves calm, and even coldly self-possessed, amid

circumstances which it would have been a delirium of joy or agony to

anticipate! Fate delights to thwart us thus. Passion will choose his

own time to rush upon the scene, and lingers sluggishly behind when an

appropriate adjustment of events would seem to summon his appearance.

So was it now with Giovanni. Day after day his pulses had throbbed with

feverish blood at the improbable idea of an interview with Beatrice,

and of standing with her, face to face, in this very garden, basking in

the Oriental sunshine of her beauty, and snatching from her full gaze

the mystery which he deemed the riddle of his own existence. But now

there was a singular and untimely equanimity within his breast. He

threw a glance around the garden to discover if Beatrice or her father

were present, and, perceiving that he was alone, began a critical

observation of the plants.

The aspect of one and all of them dissatisfied him; their gorgeousness

seemed fierce, passionate, and even unnatural. There was hardly an

individual shrub which a wanderer, straying by himself through a

forest, would not have been startled to find growing wild, as if an

unearthly face had glared at him out of the thicket.

Several also would

have shocked a delicate instinct by an appearance of artificialness

indicating that there had been such commixture, and, as it were,

adultery, of various vegetable species, that the production was no

longer of God’s making, but the monstrous offspring of man’s depraved

fancy, glowing with only an evil mockery of beauty. They were probably

the result of experiment, which in one or two cases had succeeded in

mingling plants individually lovely into a compound possessing the

questionable and ominous character that distinguished the whole growth

of the garden. In fine, Giovanni recognized but two or three plants in

the collection, and those of a kind that he well knew to be poisonous.

While busy with these contemplations he heard the rustling of a silken

garment, and, turning, beheld Beatrice emerging from beneath the

sculptured portal.

Giovanni had not considered with himself what should be his deportment;

whether he should apologize for his intrusion into the garden, or

assume that he was there with the privity at least, if not by the

desire, of Dr. Rappaccini or his daughter; but Beatrice’s manner placed

him at his ease, though leaving him still in doubt by what agency he

had gained admittance. She came lightly along the path and met him near

the broken fountain. There was surprise in her face, but brightened by

a simple and kind expression of pleasure.

“You are a connoisseur in flowers, signor,” said Beatrice, with a

smile, alluding to the bouquet which he had flung her from the window.

“It is no marvel, therefore, if the sight of my father’s rare

collection has tempted you to take a nearer view. If he were here, he

could tell you many strange and interesting facts as to the nature and

habits of these shrubs; for he has spent a lifetime in such studies,

and this garden is his world.”

“And yourself, lady,” observed Giovanni, “if fame says true,—you

likewise are deeply skilled in the virtues indicated by these rich

blossoms and these spicy perfumes. Would you deign to be my

instructress, I should prove an apter scholar than if taught by Signor

Rappaccini himself.”

“Are there such idle rumors?” asked Beatrice, with the music of a

pleasant laugh. “Do people say that I am skilled in my father’s science

of plants? What a jest is there! No; though I have grown up among these

flowers, I know no more of them than their hues and perfume; and

sometimes methinks I would fain rid myself of even that small

knowledge. There are many flowers here, and those not the least

brilliant, that shock and offend me when they meet my eye.

But pray,

signor, do not believe these stories about my science. Believe nothing

of me save what you see with your own eyes.”

“And must I believe all that I have seen with my own eyes?” asked

Giovanni, pointedly, while the recollection of former scenes made him

shrink. “No, signora; you demand too little of me. Bid me believe

nothing save what comes from your own lips.”

It would appear that Beatrice understood him. There came a deep flush

to her cheek; but she looked full into Giovanni’s eyes, and responded

to his gaze of uneasy suspicion with a queenlike haughtiness.

“I do so bid you, signor,” she replied. “Forget whatever you may have

fancied in regard to me. If true to the outward senses, still it may be

false in its essence; but the words of Beatrice Rappaccini’s lips are

true from the depths of the heart outward. Those you may believe.”

A fervor glowed in her whole aspect and beamed upon Giovanni’s

consciousness like the light of truth itself; but while she spoke there

was a fragrance in the atmosphere around her, rich and delightful,

though evanescent, yet which the young man, from an indefinable

reluctance, scarcely dared to draw into his lungs. It might be the odor

of the flowers. Could it be Beatrice’s breath which thus embalmed her

words with a strange richness, as if by steeping them in her heart? A

faintness passed like a shadow over Giovanni and flitted away; he

seemed to gaze through the beautiful girl’s eyes into her transparent

soul, and felt no more doubt or fear.

The tinge of passion that had colored Beatrice’s manner vanished; she

became gay, and appeared to derive a pure delight from her communion

with the youth not unlike what the maiden of a lonely island might have

felt conversing with a voyager from the civilized world. Evidently her

experience of life had been confined within the limits of that garden.

She talked now about matters as simple as the daylight or summer

clouds, and now asked questions in reference to the city, or Giovanni’s

distant home, his friends, his mother, and his sisters—questions

indicating such seclusion, and such lack of familiarity with modes and

forms, that Giovanni responded as if to an infant. Her spirit gushed

out before him like a fresh rill that was just catching its first

glimpse of the sunlight and wondering at the reflections of earth and

sky which were flung into its bosom. There came thoughts, too, from a

deep source, and fantasies of a gemlike brilliancy, as if diamonds and

rubies sparkled upward among the bubbles of the fountain.

Ever and anon

there gleamed across the young man’s mind a sense of wonder that he

should be walking side by side with the being who had so wrought upon

his imagination, whom he had idealized in such hues of terror, in whom

he had positively witnessed such manifestations of dreadful

attributes,—that he should be conversing with Beatrice like a brother,

and should find her so human and so maidenlike. But such reflections

were only momentary; the effect of her character was too real not to

make itself familiar at once.

In this free intercourse they had strayed through the garden, and now,

after many turns among its avenues, were come to the shattered

fountain, beside which grew the magnificent shrub, with its treasury of

glowing blossoms. A fragrance was diffused from it which Giovanni

recognized as identical with that which he had attributed to Beatrice’s

breath, but incomparably more powerful. As her eyes fell upon it,

Giovanni beheld her press her hand to her bosom as if her heart were

throbbing suddenly and painfully.

“For the first time in my life,” murmured she, addressing the shrub, “I

had forgotten thee.”

“I remember, signora,” said Giovanni, “that you once promised to reward

me with one of these living gems for the bouquet which I had the happy

boldness to fling to your feet. Permit me now to pluck it as a memorial

of this interview.”

He made a step towards the shrub with extended hand; but Beatrice

darted forward, uttering a shriek that went through his heart like a

dagger. She caught his hand and drew it back with the whole force of

her slender figure. Giovanni felt her touch thrilling through his

fibres.

“Touch it not!” exclaimed she, in a voice of agony. “Not for thy life!

It is fatal!”

Then, hiding her face, she fled from him and vanished beneath the

sculptured portal. As Giovanni followed her with his eyes, he beheld

the emaciated figure and pale intelligence of Dr. Rappaccini, who had

been watching the scene, he knew not how long, within the shadow of the

entrance.

No sooner was Guasconti alone in his chamber than the image of Beatrice

came back to his passionate musings, invested with all the witchery

that had been gathering around it ever since his first glimpse of her,

and now likewise imbued with a tender warmth of girlish womanhood. She

was human; her nature was endowed with all gentle and feminine

qualities; she was worthiest to be worshipped; she was capable, surely,

on her part, of the height and heroism of love.

Those tokens which he

had hitherto considered as proofs of a frightful peculiarity in her

physical and moral system were now either forgotten, or, by the subtle

sophistry of passion transmitted into a golden crown of enchantment,

rendering Beatrice the more admirable by so much as she was the more

unique. Whatever had looked ugly was now beautiful; or, if incapable of

such a change, it stole away and hid itself among those shapeless half

ideas which throng the dim region beyond the daylight of our perfect

consciousness. Thus did he spend the night, nor fell asleep until the

dawn had begun to awake the slumbering flowers in Dr. Rappaccini’s

garden, whither Giovanni’s dreams doubtless led him. Up rose the sun in

his due season, and, flinging his beams upon the young man’s eyelids,

awoke him to a sense of pain. When thoroughly aroused, he became

sensible of a burning and tingling agony in his hand—in his right

hand—the very hand which Beatrice had grasped in her own when he was on

the point of plucking one of the gemlike flowers. On the back of that

hand there was now a purple print like that of four small fingers, and

the likeness of a slender thumb upon his wrist.

Oh, how stubbornly does love,—or even that cunning semblance of love

which flourishes in the imagination, but strikes no depth of root into

the heart,—how stubbornly does it hold its faith until the moment comes

when it is doomed to vanish into thin mist! Giovanni wrapped a

handkerchief about his hand and wondered what evil thing had stung him,

and soon forgot his pain in a reverie of Beatrice.

After the first interview, a second was in the inevitable course of

what we call fate. A third; a fourth; and a meeting with Beatrice in

the garden was no longer an incident in Giovanni’s daily life, but the

whole space in which he might be said to live; for the anticipation and

memory of that ecstatic hour made up the remainder. Nor was it

otherwise with the daughter of Rappaccini. She watched for the youth’s

appearance, and flew to his side with confidence as unreserved as if

they had been playmates from early infancy—as if they were such

playmates still. If, by any unwonted chance, he failed to come at the

appointed moment, she stood beneath the window and sent up the rich

sweetness of her tones to float around him in his chamber and echo and

reverberate throughout his heart: “Giovanni! Giovanni! Why tarriest

thou? Come down!” And down he hastened into that Eden of poisonous

flowers.

But, with all this intimate familiarity, there was still a reserve in

Beatrice’s demeanor, so rigidly and invariably sustained that the idea

of infringing it scarcely occurred to his imagination. By all

appreciable signs, they loved; they had looked love with eyes that

conveyed the holy secret from the depths of one soul into the depths of

the other, as if it were too sacred to be whispered by the way; they

had even spoken love in those gushes of passion when their spirits

darted forth in articulated breath like tongues of long-hidden flame;

and yet there had been no seal of lips, no clasp of hands, nor any

slightest caress such as love claims and hallows. He had never touched

one of the gleaming ringlets of her hair; her garment—so marked was the

physical barrier between them—had never been waved against him by a

breeze. On the few occasions when Giovanni had seemed tempted to

overstep the limit, Beatrice grew so sad, so stern, and withal wore

such a look of desolate separation, shuddering at itself, that not a

spoken word was requisite to repel him. At such times he was startled

at the horrible suspicions that rose, monster-like, out of the caverns

of his heart and stared him in the face; his love grew thin and faint

as the morning mist, his doubts alone had substance. But, when

Beatrice’s face brightened again after the momentary shadow, she was

transformed at once from the mysterious, questionable being whom he had

watched with so much awe and horror; she was now the beautiful and

unsophisticated girl whom he felt that his spirit knew with a certainty

beyond all other knowledge.

A considerable time had now passed since Giovanni’s last meeting with

Baglioni. One morning, however, he was disagreeably surprised by a

visit from the professor, whom he had scarcely thought of for whole

weeks, and would willingly have forgotten still longer. Given up as he

had long been to a pervading excitement, he could tolerate no

companions except upon condition of their perfect sympathy with his

present state of feeling. Such sympathy was not to be expected from

Professor Baglioni.

The visitor chatted carelessly for a few moments about the gossip of

the city and the university, and then took up another topic.

“I have been reading an old classic author lately,” said he, “and met

with a story that strangely interested me. Possibly you may remember

it. It is of an Indian prince, who sent a beautiful woman as a present

to Alexander the Great.

She was as lovely as the dawn and gorgeous as

the sunset; but what especially distinguished her was a certain rich

perfume in her breath—richer than a garden of Persian roses. Alexander,

as was natural to a youthful conqueror, fell in love at first sight

with this magnificent stranger; but a certain sage physician, happening

to be present, discovered a terrible secret in regard to her.”

“And what was that?” asked Giovanni, turning his eyes downward to avoid

those of the professor.

“That this lovely woman,” continued Baglioni, with emphasis, “had been

nourished with poisons from her birth upward, until her whole nature

was so imbued with them that she herself had become the deadliest

poison in existence. Poison was her element of life. With that rich

perfume of her breath she blasted the very air. Her love would have

been poison—her embrace death. Is not this a marvellous tale?”

“A childish fable,” answered Giovanni, nervously starting from his

chair. “I marvel how your worship finds time to read such nonsense

among your graver studies.”

“By the by,” said the professor, looking uneasily about him, “what

singular fragrance is this in your apartment? Is it the perfume of your

gloves? It is faint, but delicious; and yet, after all, by no means

agreeable. Were I to breathe it long, methinks it would make me ill. It

is like the breath of a flower; but I see no flowers in the chamber.”

“Nor are there any,” replied Giovanni, who had turned pale as the

professor spoke; “nor, I think, is there any fragrance except in your

worship’s imagination. Odors, being a sort of element combined of the

sensual and the spiritual, are apt to deceive us in this manner. The

recollection of a perfume, the bare idea of it, may easily be mistaken

for a present reality.”

“Ay; but my sober imagination does not often play such tricks,” said

Baglioni; “and, were I to fancy any kind of odor, it would be that of

some vile apothecary drug, wherewith my fingers are likely enough to be

imbued. Our worshipful friend Rappaccini, as I have heard, tinctures

his medicaments with odors richer than those of Araby. Doubtless,

likewise, the fair and learned Signora Beatrice would minister to her

patients with draughts as sweet as a maiden’s breath; but woe to him

that sips them!”

Giovanni’s face evinced many contending emotions.

The tone in which the

professor alluded to the pure and lovely daughter of Rappaccini was a

torture to his soul; and yet the intimation of a view of her character

opposite to his own, gave instantaneous distinctness to a thousand dim

suspicions, which now grinned at him like so many demons. But he strove

hard to quell them and to respond to Baglioni with a true lover’s

perfect faith.

“Signor professor,” said he, “you were my father’s friend; perchance,

too, it is your purpose to act a friendly part towards his son. I would

fain feel nothing towards you save respect and deference; but I pray

you to observe, signor, that there is one subject on which we must not

speak. You know not the Signora Beatrice. You cannot, therefore,

estimate the wrong—the blasphemy, I may even say—that is offered to her

character by a light or injurious word.”

“Giovanni! my poor Giovanni!” answered the professor, with a calm

expression of pity, “I know this wretched girl far better than

yourself. You shall hear the truth in respect to the poisoner

Rappaccini and his poisonous daughter; yes, poisonous as she is

beautiful. Listen; for, even should you do violence to my gray hairs,

it shall not silence me. That old fable of the Indian woman has become

a truth by the deep and deadly science of Rappaccini and in the person

of the lovely Beatrice.”

Giovanni groaned and hid his face

“Her father,” continued Baglioni, “was not restrained by natural

affection from offering up his child in this horrible manner as the

victim of his insane zeal for science; for, let us do him justice, he

is as true a man of science as ever distilled his own heart in an

alembic. What, then, will be your fate? Beyond a doubt you are selected

as the material of some new experiment. Perhaps the result is to be

death; perhaps a fate more awful still. Rappaccini, with what he calls

the interest of science before his eyes, will hesitate at nothing.”

“It is a dream,” muttered Giovanni to himself; “surely it is a dream.”

“But,” resumed the professor, “be of good cheer, son of my friend. It

is not yet too late for the rescue. Possibly we may even succeed in

bringing back this miserable child within the limits of ordinary

nature, from which her father’s madness has estranged her. Behold this

little silver vase! It was wrought by the hands of the renowned

Benvenuto Cellini, and is well worthy to be a love gift to the fairest

dame in Italy. But its contents are invaluable. One little sip of this

antidote would have rendered the most virulent poisons of the Borgias

innocuous.

Doubt not that it will be as efficacious against those of

Rappaccini. Bestow the vase, and the precious liquid within it, on your

Beatrice, and hopefully await the result.”

Baglioni laid a small, exquisitely wrought silver vial on the table and

withdrew, leaving what he had said to produce its effect upon the young

man’s mind.

“We will thwart Rappaccini yet,” thought he, chuckling to himself, as

he descended the stairs; “but, let us confess the truth of him, he is a

wonderful man—a wonderful man indeed; a vile empiric, however, in his

practice, and therefore not to be tolerated by those who respect the

good old rules of the medical profession.”

Throughout Giovanni’s whole acquaintance with Beatrice, he had

occasionally, as we have said, been haunted by dark surmises as to her

character; yet so thoroughly had she made herself felt by him as a

simple, natural, most affectionate, and guileless creature, that the

image now held up by Professor Baglioni looked as strange and

incredible as if it were not in accordance with his own original

conception. True, there were ugly recollections connected with his

first glimpses of the beautiful girl; he could not quite forget the

bouquet that withered in her grasp, and the insect that perished amid

the sunny air, by no ostensible agency save the fragrance of her

breath. These incidents, however, dissolving in the pure light of her

character, had no longer the efficacy of facts, but were acknowledged

as mistaken fantasies, by whatever testimony of the senses they might

appear to be substantiated. There is something truer and more real than

what we can see with the eyes and touch with the finger. On such better

evidence had Giovanni founded his confidence in Beatrice, though rather

by the necessary force of her high attributes than by any deep and

generous faith on his part. But now his spirit was incapable of

sustaining itself at the height to which the early enthusiasm of

passion had exalted it; he fell down, grovelling among earthly doubts,

and defiled therewith the pure whiteness of Beatrice’s image. Not that

he gave her up; he did but distrust. He resolved to institute some

decisive test that should satisfy him, once for all, whether there were

those dreadful peculiarities in her physical nature which could not be

supposed to exist without some corresponding monstrosity of soul.

His

eyes, gazing down afar, might have deceived him as to the lizard, the

insect, and the flowers; but if he could witness, at the distance of a

few paces, the sudden blight of one fresh and healthful flower in

Beatrice’s hand, there would be room for no further question. With this

idea he hastened to the florist’s and purchased a bouquet that was

still gemmed with the morning dew-drops.

It was now the customary hour of his daily interview with Beatrice.

Before descending into the garden, Giovanni failed not to look at his

figure in the mirror,—a vanity to be expected in a beautiful young man,

yet, as displaying itself at that troubled and feverish moment, the

token of a certain shallowness of feeling and insincerity of character.

He did gaze, however, and said to himself that his features had never

before possessed so rich a grace, nor his eyes such vivacity, nor his

cheeks so warm a hue of superabundant life.

“At least,” thought he, “her poison has not yet insinuated itself into

my system. I am no flower to perish in her grasp.”

With that thought he turned his eyes on the bouquet, which he had never

once laid aside from his hand. A thrill of indefinable horror shot

through his frame on perceiving that those dewy flowers were already

beginning to droop; they wore the aspect of things that had been fresh

and lovely yesterday. Giovanni grew white as marble, and stood

motionless before the mirror, staring at his own reflection there as at

the likeness of something frightful. He remembered Baglioni’s remark

about the fragrance that seemed to pervade the chamber. It must have

been the poison in his breath! Then he shuddered—shuddered at himself.

Recovering from his stupor, he began to watch with curious eye a spider

that was busily at work hanging its web from the antique cornice of the

apartment, crossing and recrossing the artful system of interwoven

lines—as vigorous and active a spider as ever dangled from an old

ceiling. Giovanni bent towards the insect, and emitted a deep, long

breath. The spider suddenly ceased its toil; the web vibrated with a

tremor originating in the body of the small artisan. Again Giovanni

sent forth a breath, deeper, longer, and imbued with a venomous feeling

out of his heart: he knew not whether he were wicked, or only

desperate. The spider made a convulsive gripe with his limbs and hung

dead across the window.

“Accursed! accursed!” muttered Giovanni, addressing himself. “Hast thou

grown so poisonous that this deadly insect perishes by thy breath?”

At that moment a rich, sweet voice came floating up from the garden.

“Giovanni! Giovanni! It is past the hour! Why tarriest thou? Come

down!”

“Yes,” muttered Giovanni again. “She is the only being whom my breath

may not slay! Would that it might!”

He rushed down, and in an instant was standing before the bright and

loving eyes of Beatrice. A moment ago his wrath and despair had been so

fierce that he could have desired nothing so much as to wither her by a

glance; but with her actual presence there came influences which had

too real an existence to be at once shaken off: recollections of the

delicate and benign power of her feminine nature, which had so often

enveloped him in a religious calm; recollections of many a holy and

passionate outgush of her heart, when the pure fountain had been

unsealed from its depths and made visible in its transparency to his

mental eye; recollections which, had Giovanni known how to estimate

them, would have assured him that all this ugly mystery was but an

earthly illusion, and that, whatever mist of evil might seem to have

gathered over her, the real Beatrice was a heavenly angel. Incapable as

he was of such high faith, still her presence had not utterly lost its

magic. Giovanni’s rage was quelled into an aspect of sullen

insensibility. Beatrice, with a quick spiritual sense, immediately felt

that there was a gulf of blackness between them which neither he nor

she could pass. They walked on together, sad and silent, and came thus

to the marble fountain and to its pool of water on the ground, in the

midst of which grew the shrub that bore gem-like blossoms. Giovanni was

affrighted at the eager enjoyment—the appetite, as it were—with which

he found himself inhaling the fragrance of the flowers.

“Beatrice,” asked he, abruptly, “whence came this shrub?”

“My father created it,” answered she, with simplicity.

“Created it! created it!” repeated Giovanni. “What mean you, Beatrice?”

“He is a man fearfully acquainted with the secrets of Nature,” replied

Beatrice; “and, at the hour when I first drew breath, this plant sprang

from the soil, the offspring of his science, of his intellect, while I

was but his earthly child. Approach it not!” continued she, observing

with terror that Giovanni was drawing nearer to the shrub. “It has

qualities that you little dream of. But I, dearest Giovanni,—I grew up

and blossomed with the plant and was nourished with its breath. It was

my sister, and I loved it with a human affection; for, alas!—hast thou

not suspected it?—there was an awful doom.”

Here Giovanni frowned so darkly upon her that Beatrice paused and

trembled.

But her faith in his tenderness reassured her, and made her

blush that she had doubted for an instant.

“There was an awful doom,” she continued, “the effect of my father’s

fatal love of science, which estranged me from all society of my kind.

Until Heaven sent thee, dearest Giovanni, oh, how lonely was thy poor

Beatrice!”

“Was it a hard doom?” asked Giovanni, fixing his eyes upon her.

“Only of late have I known how hard it was,” answered she, tenderly.

“Oh, yes; but my heart was torpid, and therefore quiet.”

Giovanni’s rage broke forth from his sullen gloom like a lightning

flash out of a dark cloud.

“Accursed one!” cried he, with venomous scorn and anger. “And, finding

thy solitude wearisome, thou hast severed me likewise from all the

warmth of life and enticed me into thy region of unspeakable horror!”

“Giovanni!” exclaimed Beatrice, turning her large bright eyes upon his

face. The force of his words had not found its way into her mind; she

was merely thunderstruck.

“Yes, poisonous thing!” repeated Giovanni, beside himself with passion.

“Thou hast done it! Thou hast blasted me! Thou hast filled my veins

with poison! Thou hast made me as hateful, as ugly, as loathsome and

deadly a creature as thyself—a world’s wonder of hideous monstrosity!

Now, if our breath be happily as fatal to ourselves as to all others,

let us join our lips in one kiss of unutterable hatred, and so die!”

“What has befallen me?” murmured Beatrice, with a low moan out of her

heart. “Holy Virgin, pity me, a poor heart-broken child!”

“Thou,—dost thou pray?” cried Giovanni, still with the same fiendish

scorn. “Thy very prayers, as they come from thy lips, taint the

atmosphere with death. Yes, yes; let us pray! Let us to church and dip

our fingers in the holy water at the portal! They that come after us

will perish as by a pestilence! Let us sign crosses in the air! It will

be scattering curses abroad in the likeness of holy symbols!”

“Giovanni,” said Beatrice, calmly, for her grief was beyond passion,

“why dost thou join thyself with me thus in those terrible words? I, it

is true, am the horrible thing thou namest me. But thou,—what hast thou

to do, save with one other shudder at my hideous misery to go forth out

of the garden and mingle with thy race, and forget there ever crawled

on earth such a monster as poor Beatrice?”

“Dost thou pretend ignorance?” asked Giovanni, scowling upon her.

“Behold! this power have I gained from the pure daughter of

Rappaccini.

”

There was a swarm of summer insects flitting through the air in search

of the food promised by the flower odors of the fatal garden. They

circled round Giovanni’s head, and were evidently attracted towards him

by the same influence which had drawn them for an instant within the

sphere of several of the shrubs. He sent forth a breath among them, and

smiled bitterly at Beatrice as at least a score of the insects fell

dead upon the ground.

“I see it! I see it!” shrieked Beatrice. “It is my father’s fatal

science! No, no, Giovanni; it was not I! Never! never! I dreamed only

to love thee and be with thee a little time, and so to let thee pass

away, leaving but thine image in mine heart; for, Giovanni, believe it,

though my body be nourished with poison, my spirit is God’s creature,

and craves love as its daily food. But my father,—he has united us in

this fearful sympathy. Yes; spurn me, tread upon me, kill me! Oh, what

is death after such words as thine? But it was not I. Not for a world

of bliss would I have done it.”

Giovanni’s passion had exhausted itself in its outburst from his lips.

There now came across him a sense, mournful, and not without

tenderness, of the intimate and peculiar relationship between Beatrice

and himself. They stood, as it were, in an utter solitude, which would

be made none the less solitary by the densest throng of human life.

Ought not, then, the desert of humanity around them to press this

insulated pair closer together? If they should be cruel to one another,

who was there to be kind to them? Besides, thought Giovanni, might

there not still be a hope of his returning within the limits of

ordinary nature, and leading Beatrice, the redeemed Beatrice, by the

hand? O, weak, and selfish, and unworthy spirit, that could dream of an

earthly union and earthly happiness as possible, after such deep love

had been so bitterly wronged as was Beatrice’s love by Giovanni’s

blighting words! No, no; there could be no such hope. She must pass

heavily, with that broken heart, across the borders of Time—she must

bathe her hurts in some fount of paradise, and forget her grief in the

light of immortality, and THERE be well.

But Giovanni did not know it.

“Dear Beatrice,” said he, approaching her, while she shrank away as

always at his approach, but now with a different impulse, “dearest

Beatrice, our fate is not yet so desperate. Behold! there is a

medicine, potent, as a wise physician has assured me, and almost divine

in its efficacy.

It is composed of ingredients the most opposite to

those by which thy awful father has brought this calamity upon thee and

me. It is distilled of blessed herbs. Shall we not quaff it together,

and thus be purified from evil?”

“Give it me!” said Beatrice, extending her hand to receive the little

silver vial which Giovanni took from his bosom. She added, with a

peculiar emphasis, “I will drink; but do thou await the result.”

She put Baglioni’s antidote to her lips; and, at the same moment, the

figure of Rappaccini emerged from the portal and came slowly towards

the marble fountain. As he drew near, the pale man of science seemed to

gaze with a triumphant expression at the beautiful youth and maiden, as

might an artist who should spend his life in achieving a picture or a

group of statuary and finally be satisfied with his success. He paused;

his bent form grew erect with conscious power; he spread out his hands

over them in the attitude of a father imploring a blessing upon his

children; but those were the same hands that had thrown poison into the

stream of their lives. Giovanni trembled. Beatrice shuddered nervously,

and pressed her hand upon her heart.

“My daughter,” said Rappaccini, “thou art no longer lonely in the

world. Pluck one of those precious gems from thy sister shrub and bid

thy bridegroom wear it in his bosom. It will not harm him now. My

science and the sympathy between thee and him have so wrought within

his system that he now stands apart from common men, as thou dost,

daughter of my pride and triumph, from ordinary women. Pass on, then,

through the world, most dear to one another and dreadful to all

besides!”

“My father,” said Beatrice, feebly,—and still as she spoke she kept her

hand upon her heart,—“wherefore didst thou inflict this miserable doom

upon thy child?”

“Miserable!” exclaimed Rappaccini. “What mean you, foolish girl? Dost

thou deem it misery to be endowed with marvellous gifts against which

no power nor strength could avail an enemy—misery, to be able to quell

the mightiest with a breath—misery, to be as terrible as thou art

beautiful? Wouldst thou, then, have preferred the condition of a weak

woman, exposed to all evil and capable of none?”

“I would fain have been loved, not feared,” murmured Beatrice, sinking

down upon the ground. “But now it matters not. I am going, father,

where the evil which thou hast striven to mingle with my being will

pass away like a dream-like the fragrance of these poisonous flowers,

which will no longer taint my breath among the flowers of Eden.

Farewell, Giovanni! Thy words of hatred are like lead within my heart;

but they, too, will fall away as I ascend. Oh, was there not, from the

first, more poison in thy nature than in mine?”

To Beatrice,—so radically had her earthly part been wrought upon by

Rappaccini’s skill,—as poison had been life, so the powerful antidote

was death; and thus the poor victim of man’s ingenuity and of thwarted

nature, and of the fatality that attends all such efforts of perverted

wisdom, perished there, at the feet of her father and Giovanni. Just at

that moment Professor Pietro Baglioni looked forth from the window, and

called loudly, in a tone of triumph mixed with horror, to the

thunderstricken man of science, “Rappaccini! Rappaccini! and is _this_

the upshot of your experiment!”

Chapter 6.

MRS. BULLFROG.

It makes me melancholy to see how like fools some very sensible people

act in the matter of choosing wives. They perplex their judgments by a

most undue attention to little niceties of personal appearance, habits,

disposition, and other trifles which concern nobody but the lady

herself. An unhappy gentleman, resolving to wed nothing short of

perfection, keeps his heart and hand till both get so old and withered

that no tolerable woman will accept them. Now this is the very height

of absurdity. A kind Providence has so skilfully adapted sex to sex and

the mass of individuals to each other, that, with certain obvious

exceptions, any male and female may be moderately happy in the married

state. The true rule is to ascertain that the match is fundamentally a

good one, and then to take it for granted that all minor objections,

should there be such, will vanish, if you let them alone. Only put

yourself beyond hazard as to the real basis of matrimonial bliss, and

it is scarcely to be imagined what miracles, in the way of recognizing

smaller incongruities, connubial love will effect.

For my own part I freely confess that, in my bachelorship, I was

precisely such an over-curious simpleton as I now advise the reader not

to be. My early habits had gifted me with a feminine sensibility and

too exquisite refinement. I was the accomplished graduate of a dry

goods store, where, by dint of ministering to the whims of fine ladies,

and suiting silken hose to delicate limbs, and handling satins,

ribbons, chintzes calicoes, tapes, gauze, and cambric needles, I grew

up a very ladylike sort of a gentleman. It is not assuming too much to

affirm that the ladies themselves were hardly so ladylike as Thomas

Bullfrog.

So painfully acute was my sense of female imperfection, and

such varied excellence did I require in the woman whom I could love,

that there was an awful risk of my getting no wife at all, or of being

driven to perpetrate matrimony with my own image in the looking-glass.

Besides the fundamental principle already hinted at, I demanded the

fresh bloom of youth, pearly teeth, glossy ringlets, and the whole list

of lovely items, with the utmost delicacy of habits and sentiments, a

silken texture of mind, and, above all, a virgin heart. In a word, if a

young angel just from paradise, yet dressed in earthly fashion, had

come and offered me her hand, it is by no means certain that I should

have taken it. There was every chance of my becoming a most miserable

old bachelor, when, by the best luck in the world, I made a journey

into another state, and was smitten by, and smote again, and wooed,

won, and married, the present Mrs. Bullfrog, all in the space of a

fortnight. Owing to these extempore measures, I not only gave my bride

credit for certain perfections which have not as yet come to light, but

also overlooked a few trifling defects, which, however, glimmered on my

perception long before the close of the honeymoon. Yet, as there was no

mistake about the fundamental principle aforesaid, I soon learned, as

will be seen, to estimate Mrs. Bullfrog’s deficiencies and

superfluities at exactly their proper value.

The same morning that Mrs. Bullfrog and I came together as a unit, we

took two seats in the stage-coach and began our journey towards my

place of business. There being no other passengers, we were as much

alone and as free to give vent to our raptures as if I had hired a hack

for the matrimonial jaunt. My bride looked charmingly in a green silk

calash and riding habit of pelisse cloth; and whenever her red lips

parted with a smile, each tooth appeared like an inestimable pearl.

Such was my passionate warmth that—we had rattled out of the village,

gentle reader, and were lonely as Adam and Eve in paradise—I plead

guilty to no less freedom than a kiss. The gentle eye of Mrs. Bullfrog

scarcely rebuked me for the profanation. Emboldened by her indulgence,

I threw back the calash from her polished brow, and suffered my

fingers, white and delicate as her own, to stray among those dark and

glossy curls which realized my daydreams of rich hair.

“My love,” said Mrs. Bullfrog tenderly, “you will disarrange my curls.”

“Oh, no, my sweet Laura!” replied I, still playing with the glossy

ringlet. “Even your fair hand could not manage a curl more delicately

than mine.

I propose myself the pleasure of doing up your hair in

papers every evening at the same time with my own.”

“Mr. Bullfrog,” repeated she, “you must not disarrange my curls.”

This was spoken in a more decided tone than I had happened to hear,

until then, from my gentlest of all gentle brides. At the same time she

put up her hand and took mine prisoner; but merely drew it away from

the forbidden ringlet, and then immediately released it. Now, I am a

fidgety little man, and always love to have something in my fingers; so

that, being debarred from my wife’s curls, I looked about me for any

other plaything. On the front seat of the coach there was one of those

small baskets in which travelling ladies who are too delicate to appear

at a public table generally carry a supply of gingerbread, biscuits and

cheese, cold ham, and other light refreshments, merely to sustain

nature to the journey’s end. Such airy diet will sometimes keep them in

pretty good flesh for a week together. Laying hold of this same little

basket, I thrust my hand under the newspaper with which it was

carefully covered.

“What’s this, my dear?” cried I; for the black neck of a bottle had

popped out of the basket.

“A bottle of Kalydor, Mr. Bullfrog,” said my wife, coolly taking the

basket from my hands and replacing it on the front seat.

There was no possibility of doubting my wife’s word; but I never knew

genuine Kalydor, such as I use for my own complexion, to smell so much

like cherry brandy. I was about to express my fears that the lotion

would injure her skin, when an accident occurred which threatened more

than a skin-deep injury. Our Jehu had carelessly driven over a heap of

gravel and fairly capsized the coach, with the wheels in the air and

our heels where our heads should have been. What became of my wits I

cannot imagine; they have always had a perverse trick of deserting me

just when they were most needed; but so it chanced, that in the

confusion of our overthrow I quite forgot that there was a Mrs.

Bullfrog in the world. Like many men’s wives, the good lady served her

husband as a steppingstone. I had scrambled out of the coach and was

instinctively settling my cravat, when somebody brushed roughly by me,

and I heard a smart thwack upon the coachman’s ear.

“Take that, you villain!” cried a strange, hoarse voice. “You have

ruined me, you blackguard! I shall never be the woman I have been!”

And then came a second thwack, aimed at the driver’s other ear; but

which missed it, and hit him on the nose, causing a terrible effusion

of blood.

Now, who or what fearful apparition was inflicting this

punishment on the poor fellow remained an impenetrable mystery to me.

The blows were given by a person of grisly aspect, with a head almost

bald, and sunken cheeks, apparently of the feminine gender, though

hardly to be classed in the gentler sex. There being no teeth to

modulate the voice, it had a mumbled fierceness, not passionate, but

stern, which absolutely made me quiver like calf’s-foot jelly. Who

could the phantom be? The most awful circumstance of the affair is yet

to be told: for this ogre, or whatever it was, had a riding habit like

Mrs. Bullfrog’s, and also a green silk calash dangling down her back by

the strings. In my terror and turmoil of mind I could imagine nothing

less than that the Old Nick, at the moment of our overturn, had

annihilated my wife and jumped into her petticoats. This idea seemed

the most probable, since I could nowhere perceive Mrs. Bullfrog alive,

nor, though I looked very sharply about the coach, could I detect any

traces of that beloved woman’s dead body. There would have been a

comfort in giving her Christian burial.

“Come, sir, bestir yourself! Help this rascal to set up the coach,”

said the hobgoblin to me; then, with a terrific screech at three

countrymen at a distance, “Here, you fellows, ain’t you ashamed to

stand off when a poor woman is in distress?”

The countrymen, instead of fleeing for their lives, came running at

full speed, and laid hold of the topsy-turvy coach. I, also, though a

small-sized man, went to work like a son of Anak. The coachman, too,

with the blood still streaming from his nose, tugged and toiled most

manfully, dreading, doubtless, that the next blow might break his head.

And yet, bemauled as the poor fellow had been, he seemed to glance at

me with an eye of pity, as if my case were more deplorable than his.

But I cherished a hope that all would turn out a dream, and seized the

opportunity, as we raised the coach, to jam two of my fingers under the

wheel, trusting that the pain would awaken me.

“Why, here we are, all to rights again!” exclaimed a sweet voice

behind. “Thank you for your assistance, gentlemen. My dear Mr.

Bullfrog, how you perspire! Do let me wipe your face. Don’t take this

little accident too much to heart, good driver. We ought to be thankful

that none of our necks are broken.”

“We might have spared one neck out of the three,” muttered the driver,

rubbing his ear and pulling his nose, to ascertain whether he had been

cuffed or not.

“Why, the woman’s a witch!”

I fear that the reader will not believe, yet it is positively a fact,

that there stood Mrs. Bullfrog, with her glossy ringlets curling on her

brow, and two rows of orient pearls gleaming between her parted lips,

which wore a most angelic smile. She had regained her riding habit and

calash from the grisly phantom, and was, in all respects, the lovely

woman who had been sitting by my side at the instant of our overturn.

How she had happened to disappear, and who had supplied her place, and

whence she did now return, were problems too knotty for me to solve.

There stood my wife. That was the one thing certain among a heap of

mysteries. Nothing remained but to help her into the coach, and plod

on, through the journey of the day and the journey of life, as

comfortably as we could. As the driver closed the door upon us, I heard

him whisper to the three countrymen, “How do you suppose a fellow feels

shut up in the cage with a she tiger?”

Of course this query could have no reference to my situation. Yet,

unreasonable as it may appear, I confess that my feelings were not

altogether so ecstatic as when I first called Mrs. Bullfrog mine. True,

she was a sweet woman and an angel of a wife; but what if a Gorgon

should return, amid the transports of our connubial bliss, and take the

angel’s place. I recollected the tale of a fairy, who half the time was

a beautiful woman and half the time a hideous monster. Had I taken that

very fairy to be the wife of my bosom? While such whims and chimeras

were flitting across my fancy I began to look askance at Mrs. Bullfrog,

almost expecting that the transformation would be wrought before my

eyes.

To divert my mind, I took up the newspaper which had covered the little

basket of refreshments, and which now lay at the bottom of the coach,

blushing with a deep-red stain and emitting a potent spirituous fume

from the contents of the broken bottle of Kalydor. The paper was two or

three years old, but contained an article of several columns, in which

I soon grew wonderfully interested. It was the report of a trial for

breach of promise of marriage, giving the testimony in full, with

fervid extracts from both the gentleman’s and lady’s amatory

correspondence. The deserted damsel had personally appeared in court,

and had borne energetic evidence to her lover’s perfidy and the

strength of her blighted affections. On the defendant’s part there had

been an attempt, though insufficiently sustained, to blast the

plaintiff’s character, and a plea, in mitigation of damages, on account

of her unamiable temper.

A horrible idea was suggested by the lady’s

name.

“Madam,” said I, holding the newspaper before Mrs. Bullfrog’s

eyes,—and, though a small, delicate, and thin-visaged man, I feel

assured that I looked very terrific,—“madam,” repeated I, through my

shut teeth, “were you the plaintiff in this cause?”

“Oh, my dear Mr. Bullfrog,” replied my wife, sweetly, “I thought all

the world knew that!”

“Horror! horror!” exclaimed I, sinking back on the seat.

Covering my face with both hands, I emitted a deep and deathlike groan,

as if my tormented soul were rending me asunder—I, the most exquisitely

fastidious of men, and whose wife was to have been the most delicate

and refined of women, with all the fresh dew-drops glittering on her

virgin rosebud of a heart!

I thought of the glossy ringlets and pearly teeth; I thought of the

Kalydor; I thought of the coachman’s bruised ear and bloody nose; I

thought of the tender love secrets which she had whispered to the judge

and jury and a thousand tittering auditors,—and gave another groan!

“Mr. Bullfrog,” said my wife.

As I made no reply, she gently took my hands within her own, removed

them from my face, and fixed her eyes steadfastly on mine.

“Mr. Bullfrog,” said she, not unkindly, yet with all the decision of

her strong character, “let me advise you to overcome this foolish

weakness, and prove yourself, to the best of your ability, as good a

husband as I will be a wife. You have discovered, perhaps, some little

imperfections in your bride. Well, what did you expect? Women are not

angels. If they were, they would go to heaven for husbands; or, at

least, be more difficult in their choice on earth.”

“But why conceal those imperfections?” interposed I, tremulously.

“Now, my love, are not you a most unreasonable little man?” said Mrs.

Bullfrog, patting me on the cheek. “Ought a woman to disclose her

frailties earlier than the wedding day? Few husbands, I assure you,

make the discovery in such good season, and still fewer complain that

these trifles are concealed too long. Well, what a strange man you are!

Poh! you are joking.”

“But the suit for breach of promise!” groaned I.

“Ah, and is that the rub?” exclaimed my wife. “Is it possible that you

view that affair in an objectionable light? Mr.

Bullfrog, I never could

have dreamed it! Is it an objection that I have triumphantly defended

myself against slander and vindicated my purity in a court of justice?

Or do you complain because your wife has shown the proper spirit of a

woman, and punished the villain who trifled with her affections?”

“But,” persisted I, shrinking into a corner of the coach, however,—for

I did not know precisely how much contradiction the proper spirit of a

woman would endure,—“but, my love, would it not have been more

dignified to treat the villain with the silent contempt he merited?”

“That is all very well, Mr. Bullfrog,” said my wife, slyly; “but, in

that case, where would have been the five thousand dollars which are to

stock your dry goods store?”

“Mrs. Bullfrog, upon your honor,” demanded I, as if my life hung upon

her words, “is there no mistake about those five thousand dollars?”

“Upon my word and honor there is none,” replied she. “The jury gave me

every cent the rascal had; and I have kept it all for my dear

Bullfrog.”

“Then, thou dear woman,” cried I, with an overwhelming gush of

tenderness, “let me fold thee to my heart. The basis of matrimonial

bliss is secure, and all thy little defects and frailties are forgiven.

Nay, since the result has been so fortunate, I rejoice at the wrongs

which drove thee to this blessed lawsuit. Happy Bullfrog that I am!”

Chapter 7.

FIRE WORSHIP.

It is a great revolution in social and domestic life, and no less so in

the life of a secluded student, this almost universal exchange of the

open fireplace for the cheerless and ungenial stove. On such a morning

as now lowers around our old gray parsonage, I miss the bright face of

my ancient friend, who was wont to dance upon the hearth and play the

part of more familiar sunshine. It is sad to turn from the cloudy sky

and sombre landscape; from yonder hill, with its crown of rusty, black

pines, the foliage of which is so dismal in the absence of the sun;

that bleak pasture-land, and the broken surface of the potato-field,

with the brown clods partly concealed by the snowfall of last night;

the swollen and sluggish river, with ice-incrusted borders, dragging

its bluish-gray stream along the verge of our orchard like a snake half

torpid with the cold,—it is sad to turn from an outward scene of so

little comfort and find the same sullen influences brooding within the

precincts of my study.

Where is that brilliant guest, that quick and

subtle spirit, whom Prometheus lured from heaven to civilize mankind

and cheer them in their wintry desolation; that comfortable inmate,

whose smile, during eight months of the year, was our sufficient

consolation for summer’s lingering advance and early flight? Alas!

blindly inhospitable, grudging the food that kept him cheery and

mercurial, we have thrust him into an iron prison, and compel him to

smoulder away his life on a daily pittance which once would have been

too scanty for his breakfast. Without a metaphor, we now make our fire

in an air-tight stove, and supply it with some half a dozen sticks of

wood between dawn and nightfall.

I never shall be reconciled to this enormity. Truly may it be said that

the world looks darker for it. In one way or another, here and there

and all around us, the inventions of mankind are fast blotting the

picturesque, the poetic, and the beautiful out of human life. The

domestic fire was a type of all these attributes, and seemed to bring

might and majesty, and wild nature and a spiritual essence, into our in

most home, and yet to dwell with us in such friendliness that its

mysteries and marvels excited no dismay. The same mild companion that

smiled so placidly in our faces was he that comes roaring out of Ætna

and rushes madly up the sky like a fiend breaking loose from torment

and fighting for a place among the upper angels. He it is, too, that

leaps from cloud to cloud amid the crashing thunder-storm. It was he

whom the Gheber worshipped with no unnatural idolatry; and it was he

who devoured London and Moscow and many another famous city, and who

loves to riot through our own dark forests and sweep across our

prairies, and to whose ravenous maw, it is said, the universe shall one

day be given as a final feast. Meanwhile he is the great artisan and

laborer by whose aid men are enabled to build a world within a world,

or, at least, to smooth down the rough creation which Nature flung to

it. He forges the mighty anchor and every lesser instrument; he drives

the steamboat and drags the rail-car; and it was he—this creature of

terrible might, and so many-sided utility and all-comprehensive

destructiveness—that used to be the cheerful, homely friend of our

wintry days, and whom we have made the prisoner of this iron cage.

How kindly he was! and, though the tremendous agent of change, yet

bearing himself with such gentleness, so rendering himself a part of

all life-long and age-coeval associations, that it seemed as if he were

the great conservative of nature.

While a man was true to the fireside,

so long would he be true to country and law, to the God whom his

fathers worshipped, to the wife of his youth, and to all things else

which instinct or religion has taught us to consider sacred. With how

sweet humility did this elemental spirit perform all needful offices

for the household in which he was domesticated! He was equal to the

concoction of a grand dinner, yet scorned not to roast a potato or

toast a bit of cheese. How humanely did he cherish the school-boy’s icy

fingers, and thaw the old man’s joints with a genial warmth which

almost equalled the glow of youth! And how carefully did he dry the

cowhide boots that had trudged through mud and snow, and the shaggy

outside garment stiff with frozen sleet! taking heed, likewise, to the

comfort of the faithful dog who had followed his master through the

storm. When did he refuse a coal to light a pipe, or even a part of his

own substance to kindle a neighbor’s fire? And then, at twilight, when

laborer, or scholar, or mortal of whatever age, sex, or degree, drew a

chair beside him and looked into his glowing face, how acute, how

profound, how comprehensive was his sympathy with the mood of each and

all! He pictured forth their very thoughts. To the youthful he showed

the scenes of the adventurous life before them; to the aged the shadows

of departed love and hope; and, if all earthly things had grown

distasteful, he could gladden the fireside muser with golden glimpses

of a better world. And, amid this varied communion with the human soul,

how busily would the sympathizer, the deep moralist, the painter of

magic pictures, be causing the teakettle to boil!

Nor did it lessen the charm of his soft, familiar courtesy and

helpfulness that the mighty spirit, were opportunity offered him, would

run riot through the peaceful house, wrap its inmates in his terrible

embrace, and leave nothing of them save their whitened bones. This

possibility of mad destruction only made his domestic kindness the more

beautiful and touching. It was so sweet of him, being endowed with such

power, to dwell day after day, and one long lonesome night after

another, on the dusky hearth, only now and then betraying his wild

nature by thrusting his red tongue out of the chimney-top! True, he had

done much mischief in the world, and was pretty certain to do more; but

his warm heart atoned for all. He was kindly to the race of man; and

they pardoned his characteristic imperfections.

The good old clergyman, my predecessor in this mansion, was well

acquainted with the comforts of the fireside.

His yearly allowance of

wood, according to the terms of his settlement, was no less than sixty

cords. Almost an annual forest was converted from sound oak logs into

ashes, in the kitchen, the parlor, and this little study, where now an

unworthy successor, not in the pastoral office, but merely in his

earthly abode, sits scribbling beside an air-tight stove. I love to

fancy one of those fireside days while the good man, a contemporary of

the Revolution, was in his early prime, some five-and-sixty years ago.

Before sunrise, doubtless, the blaze hovered upon the gray skirts of

night and dissolved the frostwork that had gathered like a curtain over

the small window-panes. There is something peculiar in the aspect of

the morning fireside; a fresher, brisker glare; the absence of that

mellowness which can be produced only by half-consumed logs, and

shapeless brands with the white ashes on them, and mighty coals, the

remnant of tree-trunks that the hungry, elements have gnawed for hours.

The morning hearth, too, is newly swept, and the brazen andirons well

brightened, so that the cheerful fire may see its face in them. Surely

it was happiness, when the pastor, fortified with a substantial

breakfast, sat down in his arm-chair and slippers and opened the Whole

Body of Divinity, or the Commentary on Job, or whichever of his old

folios or quartos might fall within the range of his weekly sermons. It

must have been his own fault if the warmth and glow of this abundant

hearth did not permeate the discourse and keep his audience comfortable

in spite of the bitterest northern blast that ever wrestled with the

church-steeple. He reads while the heat warps the stiff covers of the

volume; he writes without numbness either in his heart or fingers; and,

with unstinted hand, he throws fresh sticks of wood upon the fire.

A parishioner comes in. With what warmth of benevolence—how should he

be otherwise than warm in any of his attributes?—does the minister bid

him welcome, and set a chair for him in so close proximity to the

hearth, that soon the guest finds it needful to rub his scorched shins

with his great red hands! The melted snow drips from his steaming boots

and bubbles upon the hearth. His puckered forehead unravels its

entanglement of crisscross wrinkles. We lose much of the enjoyment of

fireside heat without such an opportunity of marking its genial effect

upon those who have been looking the inclement weather in the face.

In

the course of the day our clergyman himself strides forth, perchance to

pay a round of pastoral visits; or, it may he, to visit his mountain of

a wood-pile and cleave the monstrous logs into billets suitable for the

fire. He returns with fresher life to his beloved hearth. During the

short afternoon the western sunshine comes into the study and strives

to stare the ruddy blaze out of countenance but with only a brief

triumph, soon to be succeeded by brighter glories of its rival.

Beautiful it is to see the strengthening gleam, the deepening light

that gradually casts distinct shadows of the human figure, the table,

and the high-backed chairs upon the opposite wall, and at length, as

twilight comes on, replenishes the room with living radiance and makes

life all rose-color. Afar the wayfarer discerns the flickering flame as

it dances upon the windows, and hails it as a beacon-light of humanity,

reminding him, in his cold and lonely path, that the world is not all

snow, and solitude, and desolation. At eventide, probably, the study

was peopled with the clergyman’s wife and family, and children tumbled

themselves upon the hearth-rug, and grave puss sat with her back to the

fire, or gazed, with a semblance of human meditation, into its fervid

depths. Seasonably the plenteous ashes of the day were raked over the

mouldering brands, and from the heap came jets of flame, and an incense

of night-long smoke creeping quietly up the chimney.

Heaven forgive the old clergyman! In his later life, when for almost

ninety winters he had been gladdened by the firelight,—when it had

gleamed upon him from infancy to extreme age, and never without

brightening his spirits as well as his visage, and perhaps keeping him

alive so long,—he had the heart to brick up his chimney-place and bid

farewell to the face of his old friend forever, why did he not take an

eternal leave of the sunshine too? His sixty cords of wood had probably

dwindled to a far less ample supply in modern times; and it is certain

that the parsonage had grown crazy with time and tempest and pervious

to the cold; but still it was one of the saddest tokens of the decline

and fall of open fireplaces that, the gray patriarch should have

deigned to warm himself at an air-tight stove.

And I, likewise,—who have found a home in this ancient owl’s-nest since

its former occupant took his heavenward flight,—I, to my shame, have

put up stoves in kitchen and parlor and chamber.

Wander where you will

about the house, not a glimpse of the earth-born, heaven-aspiring fiend

of Ætna,—him that sports in the thunder-storm, the idol of the Ghebers,

the devourer of cities, the forest-rioter and prairie-sweeper, the

future destroyer of our earth, the old chimney-corner companion who

mingled himself so sociably with household joys and sorrows,—not a

glimpse of this mighty and kindly one will greet your eyes. He is now

an invisible presence. There is his iron cage. Touch it, and he

scorches your fingers. He delights to singe a garment or perpetrate any

other little unworthy mischief; for his temper is ruined by the

ingratitude of mankind, for whom he cherished such warmth of feeling,

and to whom he taught all their arts, even that of making his own

prison-house. In his fits of rage he puffs volumes of smoke and noisome

gas through the crevices of the door, and shakes the iron walls of his

dungeon so as to overthrow the ornamental urn upon its summit. We

tremble lest he should break forth amongst us. Much of his time is

spent in sighs, burdened with unutterable grief, and long drawn through

the funnel. He amuses himself, too, with repeating all the whispers,

the moans, and the louder utterances or tempestuous howls of the wind;

so that the stove becomes a microcosm of the aerial world. Occasionally

there are strange combinations of sounds,—voices talking almost

articulately within the hollow chest of iron,—insomuch that fancy

beguiles me with the idea that my firewood must have grown in that

infernal forest of lamentable trees which breathed their complaints to

Dante. When the listener is half asleep he may readily take these

voices for the conversation of spirits and assign them an intelligible

meaning. Anon there is a pattering noise,—drip, drip, drip,—as if a

summer shower were falling within the narrow circumference of the

stove.

These barren and tedious eccentricities are all that the air-tight

stove can bestow in exchange for the invaluable moral influences which

we have lost by our desertion of the open fireplace. Alas! is this

world so very bright that we can afford to choke up such a domestic

fountain of gladsomeness, and sit down by its darkened source without

being conscious of a gloom?

It is my belief that social intercourse cannot long continue what it

has been, now that we have subtracted from it so important and

vivifying an element as firelight.

The effects will be more perceptible

on our children and the generations that shall succeed them than on

ourselves, the mechanism of whose life may remain unchanged, though its

spirit be far other than it was. The sacred trust of the household fire

has been transmitted in unbroken succession from the earliest ages, and

faithfully cherished in spite of every discouragement such as the

curfew law of the Norman conquerors, until in these evil days physical

science has nearly succeeded in extinguishing it. But we at least have

our youthful recollections tinged with the glow of the hearth, and our

life-long habits and associations arranged on the principle of a mutual

bond in the domestic fire. Therefore, though the sociable friend be

forever departed, yet in a degree he will be spiritually present with

us; and still more will the empty forms which were once full of his

rejoicing presence continue to rule our manners. We shall draw our

chairs together as we and our forefathers have been wont for thousands

of years back, and sit around some blank and empty corner of the room,

babbling with unreal cheerfulness of topics suitable to the homely

fireside. A warmth from the past—from the ashes of bygone years and the

raked-up embers of long ago—will sometimes thaw the ice about our

hearts; but it must be otherwise with our successors. On the most

favorable supposition, they will be acquainted with the fireside in no

better shape than that of the sullen stove; and more probably they will

have grown up amid furnace heat in houses which might be fancied to

have their foundation over the infernal pit, whence sulphurous steams

and unbreathable exhalations ascend through the apertures of the floor.

There will be nothing to attract these poor children to one centre.

They will never behold one another through that peculiar medium of

vision the ruddy gleam of blazing wood or bituminous coal—-which gives

the human spirit so deep an insight into its fellows and melts all

humanity into one cordial heart of hearts. Domestic life, if it may

still be termed domestic, will seek its separate corners, and never

gather itself into groups. The easy gossip; the merry yet unambitious

Jest; the life-like, practical discussion of real matters in a casual

way; the soul of truth which is so often incarnated in a simple

fireside word,—will disappear from earth. Conversation will contract

the air of debate, and all mortal intercourse be chilled with a fatal

frost.

In classic times, the exhortation to fight “pro axis et focis,” for the

altars and the hearths, was considered the strongest appeal that could

be made to patriotism. And it seemed an immortal utterance; for all

subsequent ages and people have acknowledged its force and responded to

it with the full portion of manhood that nature had assigned to each.

Wisely were the altar and the hearth conjoined in one mighty sentence;

for the hearth, too, had its kindred sanctity. Religion sat down beside

it, not in the priestly robes which decorated and perhaps disguised her

at the altar, but arrayed in a simple matron’s garb, and uttering her

lessons with the tenderness of a mother’s voice and heart. The holy

hearth! If any earthly and material thing, or rather a divine idea

embodied in brick and mortar, might be supposed to possess the

permanence of moral truth, it was this. All revered it. The man who did

not put off his shoes upon this holy ground would have deemed it

pastime to trample upon the altar. It has been our task to uproot the

hearth. What further reform is left for our children to achieve, unless

they overthrow the altar too? And by what appeal hereafter, when the

breath of hostile armies may mingle with the pure, cold breezes of our

country, shall we attempt to rouse up native valor? Fight for your

hearths? There will be none throughout the land. FIGHT FOR YOUR STOVES!

Not I, in faith. If in such a cause I strike a blow, it shall be on the

invader’s part; and Heaven grant that it may shatter the abomination

all to pieces!

Chapter 8.

BUDS AND BIRD VOICES.

Balmy Spring—weeks later than we expected and months later than we

longed for her—comes at last to revive the moss on the roof and walls

of our old mansion. She peeps brightly into my study-window, inviting

me to throw it open and create a summer atmosphere by the intermixture

of her genial breath with the black and cheerless comfort of the stove.

As the casement ascends, forth into infinite space fly the innumerable

forms of thought or fancy that have kept me company in the retirement

of this little chamber during the sluggish lapse of wintry weather;

visions, gay, grotesque, and sad; pictures of real life, tinted with

nature’s homely gray and russet; scenes in dreamland, bedizened with

rainbow hues which faded before they were well laid on,—all these may

vanish now, and leave me to mould a fresh existence out of sunshine,

Brooding Meditation may flap her dusky wings and take her owl-like

Right, blinking amid the cheerfulness of noontide.

Such companions

befit the season of frosted window-panes and crackling fires, when the

blast howls through the black-ash trees of our avenue and the drifting

snow-storm chokes up the wood-paths and fills the highway from stone

wall to stone wall. In the spring and summer time all sombre thoughts

should follow the winter northward with the sombre and thoughtful

crows. The old paradisiacal economy of life is again in force; we live,

not to think or to labor, but for the simple end of being happy.

Nothing for the present hour is worthy of man’s infinite capacity save

to imbibe the warm smile of heaven and sympathize with the reviving

earth.

The present Spring comes onward with fleeter footsteps, because Winter

lingered so unconscionably long that with her best diligence she can

hardly retrieve half the allotted period of her reign. It is but a

fortnight since I stood on the brink of our swollen river and beheld

the accumulated ice of four frozen months go down the stream. Except in

streaks here and there upon the hillsides, the whole visible universe

was then covered with deep snow, the nethermost layer of which had been

deposited by an early December storm. It was a sight to make the

beholder torpid, in the impossibility of imagining how this vast white

napkin was to be removed from the face of the corpse-like world in less

time than had been required to spread it there. But who can estimate

the power of gentle influences, whether amid material desolation or the

moral winter of man’s heart? There have been no tempestuous rains, even

no sultry days, but a constant breath of southern winds, with now a day

of kindly sunshine, and now a no less kindly mist or a soft descent of

showers, in which a smile and a blessing seemed to have been steeped.

The snow has vanished as if by magic; whatever heaps may be hidden in

the woods and deep gorges of the hills, only two solitary specks remain

in the landscape; and those I shall almost regret to miss when

to-morrow I look for them in vain. Never before, methinks, has spring

pressed so closely on the footsteps of retreating winter. Along the

roadside the green blades of grass have sprouted on the very edge of

the snow-drifts. The pastures and mowing-fields have not vet assumed a

general aspect of verdure; but neither have they the cheerless-brown

tint which they wear in latter autumn when vegetation has entirely

ceased; there is now a faint shadow of life, gradually brightening into

the warm reality.

Some tracts in a happy exposure,—as, for instance,

yonder southwestern slope of an orchard, in front of that old red

farm-house beyond the river,—such patches of land already wear a

beautiful and tender green, to which no future luxuriance can add a

charm. It looks unreal; a prophecy, a hope, a transitory effect of

sonic peculiar light, which will vanish with the slightest motion of

the eye. But beauty is never a delusion; not these verdant tracts, but

the dark and barren landscape all around them, is a shadow and a dream.

Each moment wins seine portion of the earth from death to life; a

sudden gleam of verdure brightens along the sunny slope of a bank which

an instant ago was brown and bare. You look again, and behold an

apparition of green grass!

The trees in our orchard and elsewhere are as yet naked, but already

appear full of life and vegetable blood. It seems as if by one magic

touch they might instantaneously burst into full foliage, and that the

wind which now sighs through their naked branches might make sudden

music amid innumerable leaves. The mossgrown willow-tree which for

forty years past has overshadowed these western windows will be among

the first to put on its green attire. There are some objections to the

willow; it is not a dry and cleanly tree, and impresses the beholder

with an association of sliminess. No trees, I think, are perfectly

agreeable as companions unless they have glossy leaves, dry bark, and a

firm and hard texture of trunk and branches. But the willow is almost

the earliest to gladden us with the promise and reality of beauty in

its graceful and delicate foliage, and the last to scatter its yellow

yet scarcely withered leaves upon the ground. All through the winter,

too, its yellow twigs give it a sunny aspect, which is not without a

cheering influence even in the grayest and gloomiest day. Beneath a

clouded sky it faithfully remembers the sunshine. Our old house would

lose a charm were the willow to be cut down, with its golden crown over

the snow-covered roof and its heap of summer verdure.

The lilac-shrubs under my study-windows are likewise almost in leaf: in

two or three days more I may put forth my hand and pluck the topmost

bough in its freshest green. These lilacs are very aged, and have lost

the luxuriant foliage of their prime. The heart, or the judgment, or

the moral sense, or the taste is dissatisfied with their present

aspect.

Old age is not venerable when it embodies itself in lilacs,

rose-bushes, or any other ornamental shrub; it seems as if such plants,

as they grow only for beauty, ought to flourish always in immortal

youth, or, at least, to die before their sad decrepitude. Trees of

beauty are trees of paradise, and therefore not subject to decay by

their original nature, though they have lost that precious birthright

by being transplanted to an earthly soil. There is a kind of ludicrous

unfitness in the idea of a time-stricken and grandfatherly lilac-bush.

The analogy holds good in human life. Persons who can only be graceful

and ornamental—who can give the world nothing but flowers—should die

young, and never be seen with gray hair and wrinkles, any more than the

flower-shrubs with mossy bark and blighted foliage, like the lilacs

under my window. Not that beauty is worthy of less than immortality;

no, the beautiful should live forever,—and thence, perhaps, the sense

of impropriety when we see it triumphed over by time. Apple-trees, on

the other hand, grow old without reproach. Let them live as long as

they may, and contort themselves into whatever perversity of shape they

please, and deck their withered limbs with a springtime gaudiness of

pink blossoms; still they are respectable, even if they afford us only

an apple or two in a season. Those few apples—or, at all events, the

remembrance of apples in bygone years—are the atonement which

utilitarianism inexorably demands for the privilege of lengthened life.

Human flower-shrubs, if they will grow old on earth, should, besides

their lovely blossoms, bear some kind of fruit that will satisfy

earthly appetites, else neither man nor the decorum of nature will deem

it fit that the moss should gather on them.

One of the first things that strikes the attention when the white sheet

of winter is withdrawn is the neglect and disarray that lay hidden

beneath it. Nature is not cleanly according to our prejudices. The

beauty of preceding years, now transformed to brown and blighted

deformity, obstructs the brightening loveliness of the present hour.

Our avenue is strewn with the whole crop of autumn’s withered leaves.

There are quantities of decayed branches which one tempest after

another has flung down, black and rotten, and one or two with the ruin

of a bird’s-nest clinging to them. In the garden are the dried

bean-vines, the brown stalks of the asparagus-bed, and melancholy old

cabbages which were frozen into the soil before their unthrifty

cultivator could find time to gather them.

How invariably, throughout

all the forms of life, do we find these intermingled memorials of

death! On the soil of thought and in the garden of the heart, as well

as in the sensual world, he withered leaves,—the ideas and feelings

that we have done with. There is no wind strong enough to sweep them

away; infinite space will not garner then from our sight. What mean

they? Why may we not be permitted to live and enjoy, as if this were

the first life and our own the primal enjoyment, instead of treading

always on these dry hones and mouldering relics, from the aged

accumulation of which springs all that now appears so young and new?

Sweet must have been the springtime of Eden, when no earlier year had

strewn its decay upon the virgin turf and no former experience had

ripened into summer and faded into autumn in the hearts of its

inhabitants! That was a world worth living in. O then murmurer, it is

out of the very wantonness of such a life that then feignest these idle

lamentations. There is no decay. Each human soul is the first-created

inhabitant of its own Eden. We dwell in an old moss-covered mansion,

and tread in the worn footprints of the past, and have a gray

clergyman’s ghost for our daily and nightly inmate; yet all these

outward circumstances are made less than visionary by the renewing

power of the spirit. Should the spirit ever lose this power,—should the

withered leaves, and the rotten branches, and the moss-covered house,

and the ghost of the gray past ever become its realities, and the

verdure and the freshness merely its faint dream,—then let it pray to

be released from earth. It will need the air of heaven to revive its

pristine energies.

What an unlooked-for flight was this from our shadowy avenue of

black-ash and balm of Gilead trees into the infinite! Now we have our

feet again upon the turf. Nowhere does the grass spring up so

industriously as in this homely yard, along the base of the stone wall,

and in the sheltered nooks of the buildings, and especially around the

southern doorstep,—a locality which seems particularly favorable to its

growth, for it is already tall enough to bend over and wave in the

wind. I observe that several weeds—and most frequently a plant that

stains the fingers with its yellow juice—have survived and retained

their freshness and sap throughout the winter. One knows not how they

have deserved such an exception from the common lot of their race. They

are now the patriarchs of the departed year, and may preach mortality

to the present generation of flowers and weeds.

Among the delights of spring, how is it possible to forget the birds?

Even the crows were welcome as the sable harbingers of a brighter and

livelier race. They visited us before the snow was off, but seem mostly

to have betaken themselves to remote depths of the woods, which they

haunt all summer long. Many a time shall I disturb them there, and feel

as if I had intruded among a company of silent worshippers, as they sit

in Sabbath stillness among the tree-tops. Their voices, when they

speak, are in admirable accordance with the tranquil solitude of a

summer afternoon; and resounding so far above the head, their loud

clamor increases the religious quiet of the scene instead of breaking

it. A crow, however, has no real pretensions to religion, in spite of

his gravity of mien and black attire; he is certainly a thief, and

probably an infidel. The gulls are far more respectable, in a moral

point of view. These denizens of seabeaten rocks and haunters of the

lonely beach come up our inland river at this season, and soar high

overhead, flapping their broad wings in the upper sunshine. They are

among the most picturesque of birds, because they so float and rest

upon the air as to become almost stationary parts of the landscape. The

imagination has time to grow acquainted with them; they have not

flitted away in a moment. You go up among the clouds and greet these

lofty-flighted gulls, and repose confidently with them upon the

sustaining atmosphere. Duck’s have their haunts along the solitary

places of the river, and alight in flocks upon the broad bosom of the

overflowed meadows. Their flight is too rapid and determined for the

eye to catch enjoyment from it, although it never fails to stir up the

heart with the sportsman’s ineradicable instinct. They have now gone

farther northward, but will visit us again in autumn.

The smaller birds,—the little songsters of the woods, and those that

haunt man’s dwellings and claim human friendship by building their

nests under the sheltering eaves or among the orchard trees,—these

require a touch more delicate and a gentler heart than mine to do them

justice. Their outburst of melody is like a brook let loose from wintry

chains. We need not deem it a too high and solemn word to call it a

hymn of praise to the Creator; since Nature, who pictures the reviving

year in so many sights of beauty, has expressed the sentiment of

renewed life in no other sound save the notes of these blessed birds.

Their music, however, just now, seems to be incidental, and not the

result of a set purpose.

They are discussing the economy of life and

love and the site and architecture of their summer residences, and have

no time to sit on a twig and pour forth solemn hymns, or overtures,

operas, symphonies, and waltzes. Anxious questions are asked; grave

subjects are settled in quick and animated debate; and only by

occasional accident, as from pure ecstasy, does a rich warble roll its

tiny waves of golden sound through the atmosphere. Their little bodies

are as busy as their voices; they are all a constant flutter and

restlessness. Even when two or three retreat to a tree-top to hold

council, they wag their tails and heads all the time with the

irrepressible activity of their nature, which perhaps renders their

brief span of life in reality as long as the patriarchal age of

sluggish man. The blackbirds, three species of which consort together,

are the noisiest of all our feathered citizens. Great companies of

them—more than the famous “four-and-twenty” whom Mother Goose has

immortalized—congregate in contiguous treetops and vociferate with all

the clamor and confusion of a turbulent political meeting. Politics,

certainly, must be the occasion of such tumultuous debates; but still,

unlike all other politicians, they instil melody into their individual

utterances and produce harmony as a general effect. Of all bird voices,

none are more sweet and cheerful to my ear than those of swallows, in

the dim, sunstreaked interior of a lofty barn; they address the heart

with even a closer sympathy than robin-redbreast. But, indeed, all

these winged people, that dwell in the vicinity of homesteads, seem to

partake of human nature, and possess the germ, if not the development,

of immortal souls. We hear them saying their melodious prayers at

morning’s blush and eventide. A little while ago, in the deep of night,

there came the lively thrill of a bird’s note from a neighboring

tree,—a real song, such as greets the purple dawn or mingles with the

yellow sunshine. What could the little bird mean by pouring it forth at

midnight? Probably the music gushed out of the midst of a dream in

which he fancied himself in paradise with his mate, but suddenly awoke

on a cold leafless bough, with a New England mist penetrating through

his feathers. That was a sad exchange of imagination for reality.

Insects are among the earliest births of sprung. Multitudes of I know

not what species appeared long ago on the surface of the snow. Clouds

of them, almost too minute for sight, hover in a beam of sunshine, and

vanish, as if annihilated, when they pass into the shade.

A mosquito

has already been heard to sound the small horror of his bugle-horn.

Wasps infest the sunny windows of the house. A bee entered one of the

chambers with a prophecy of flowers. Rare butterflies came before the

snow was off, flaunting in the chill breeze, and looking forlorn and

all astray, in spite of the magnificence of their dark velvet cloaks,

with golden borders.

The fields and wood-paths have as yet few charms to entice the

wanderer. In a walk, the other day, I found no violets, nor anemones,

nor anything in the likeness of a flower. It was worth while, however,

to ascend our opposite hill for the sake of gaining a general idea of

the advance of spring, which I had hitherto been studying in its minute

developments. The river lay around me in a semicircle, overflowing all

the meadows which give it its Indian name, and offering a noble breadth

to sparkle in the sunbeams. Along the hither shore a row of trees stood

up to their knees in water; and afar off, on the surface of the stream,

tufts of bushes thrust up their heads, as it were, to breathe. The most

striking objects were great solitary trees here and there, with a

mile-wide waste of water all around them. The curtailment of the trunk,

by its immersion in the river, quite destroys the fair proportions of

the tree, and thus makes us sensible of a regularity and propriety in

the usual forms of nature. The flood of the present season—though it

never amounts to a freshet on our quiet stream—has encroached farther

upon the land than any previous one for at least a score of years. It

has overflowed stone fences, and even rendered a portion of the highway

navigable for boats.

The waters, however, are now gradually subsiding; islands become

annexed to the mainland; and other islands emerge, like new creations,

from the watery waste. The scene supplies an admirable image of the

receding of the Nile, except that there is no deposit of black slime;

or of Noah’s flood, only that there is a freshness and novelty in these

recovered portions of the continent which give the impression of a

world just made rather than of one so polluted that a deluge had been

requisite to purify it. These upspringing islands are the greenest

spots in the landscape; the first gleam of sunlight suffices to cover

them with verdure.

Thank Providence for spring! The earth—and man himself, by sympathy

with his birthplace would be far other than we find them if life toiled

wearily onward without this periodical infusion of the primal spirit.

Will the world ever be so decayed that spring may not renew its

greenness? Can man be so dismally age stricken that no faintest

sunshine of his youth may revisit him once a year? It is impossible.

The moss on our time-worn mansion brightens into beauty; the good old

pastor who once dwelt here renewed his prime, regained his boyhood, in

the genial breezes of his ninetieth spring. Alas for the worn and heavy

soul if, whether in youth or age, it have outlived its privilege of

springtime sprightliness! From such a soul the world must hope no

reformation of its evil, no sympathy with the lofty faith and gallant

struggles of those who contend in its behalf. Summer works in the

present, and thinks not of the future; autumn is a rich conservative;

winter has utterly lost its faith, and clings tremulously to the

remembrance of what has been; but spring, with its outgushing life, is

the true type of the movement.

Chapter 9.

MONSIEUR DU MIROIR.

Than the gentleman above named, there is nobody, in the whole circle of

my acquaintance, whom I have more attentively studied, yet of whom I

have less real knowledge, beneath the surface which it pleases him to

present. Being anxious to discover who and what he really is, and how

connected with me, and what are to be the results to him and to myself

of the joint interest which, without any choice on my part, seems to be

permanently established between us, and incited, furthermore, by the

propensities of a student of human nature, though doubtful whether

Monsieur du Miroir have aught of humanity but the figure,—I have

determined to place a few of his remarkable points before the public,

hoping to be favored with some clew to the explanation of his

character. Nor let the reader condemn any part of the narrative as

frivolous, since a subject of such grave reflection diffuses its

importance through the minutest particulars; and there is no judging

beforehand what odd little circumstance may do the office of a blind

man’s dog among the perplexities of this dark investigation; and

however extraordinary, marvellous, preternatural, and utterly

incredible some of the meditated disclosures may appear, I pledge my

honor to maintain as sacred a regard to fact as if my testimony were

given on oath and involved the dearest interests of the personage in

question. Not that there is matter for a criminal accusation against

Monsieur du Miroir, nor am I the man to bring it forward if there were.

The chief that I complain of is his impenetrable mystery, which is no

better than nonsense if it conceal anything good, and much worse in the

contrary case.

But, if undue partialities could be supposed to influence me, Monsieur

du Miroir might hope to profit rather than to suffer by them, for in

the whole of our long intercourse we have seldom had the slightest

disagreement; and, moreover, there are reasons for supposing him a near

relative of mine, and consequently entitled to the best word that I can

give him. He bears indisputably a strong personal resemblance to

myself, and generally puts on mourning at the funerals of the family.

On the other hand, his name would indicate a French descent; in which

case, infinitely preferring that my blood should flow from a bold

British and pure Puritan source, I beg leave to disclaim all kindred

with Monsieur du Miroir. Some genealogists trace his origin to Spain,

and dub him a knight of the order of the CABALLEROS DE LOS ESPEJOZ, one

of whom was overthrown by Don Quixote. But what says Monsieur du Miroir

himself of his paternity and his fatherland? Not a word did he ever say

about the matter; and herein, perhaps, lies one of his most especial

reasons for maintaining such a vexatious mystery, that he lacks the

faculty of speech to expound it. His lips are sometimes seen to move;

his eyes and countenance are alive with shifting expression, as if

corresponding by visible hieroglyphics to his modulated breath; and

anon he will seem to pause with as satisfied an air as if he had been

talking excellent sense. Good sense or bad, Monsieur du Miroir is the

sole judge of his own conversational powers, never having whispered so

much as a syllable that reached the ears of any other auditor. Is he

really dumb? or is all the world deaf? or is it merely a piece of my

friend’s waggery, meant for nothing but to make fools of us? If so, he

has the joke all to himself.

This dumb devil which possesses Monsieur do Miroir is, I am persuaded,

the sole reason that he does not make me the most flattering

protestations of friendship. In many particulars—indeed, as to all his

cognizable and not preternatural points, except that, once in a great

while, I speak a word or two—there exists the greatest apparent

sympathy between us. Such is his confidence in my taste that he goes

astray from the general fashion and copies all his dresses after mine.

I never try on a new garment without expecting to meet, Monsieur du

Miroir in one of the same pattern.

He has duplicates of all my

waistcoats and cravats, shirt-bosoms of precisely a similar plait, and

an old coat for private wear, manufactured, I suspect, by a Chinese

tailor, in exact imitation of a beloved old coat of mine, with a

facsimile, stitch by stitch, of a patch upon the elbow. In truth, the

singular and minute coincidences that occur, both in the accidents of

the passing day and the serious events of our lives, remind me of those

doubtful legends of lovers, or twin children, twins of fate, who have

lived, enjoyed, suffered, and died in unison, each faithfully repeating

the last tremor of the other’s breath, though separated by vast tracts

of sea and land. Strange to say, my incommodities belong equally to my

companion, though the burden is nowise alleviated by his participation.

The other morning, after a night of torment from the toothache, I met

Monsieur du Miroir with such a swollen anguish in his cheek that my own

pangs were redoubled, as were also his, if I might judge by a fresh

contortion of his visage. All the inequalities of my spirits are

communicated to him, causing the unfortunate Monsieur du Miroir to mope

and scowl through a whole summer’s day, or to laugh as long, for no

better reason than the gay or gloomy crotchets of my brain. Once we

were joint sufferers of a three months’ sickness, and met like mutual

ghosts in the first days of convalescence. Whenever I have been in

love, Monsieur du Miroir has looked passionate and tender; and never

did my mistress discard me, but this too susceptible gentleman grew

lackadaisical. His temper, also, rises to blood heat, fever heat, or

boiling-water beat, according to the measure of any wrong which might

seem to have fallen entirely on myself. I have sometimes been calmed

down by the sight of my own inordinate wrath depicted on his frowning

brow. Yet, however prompt in taking up my quarrels, I cannot call to

mind that he ever struck a downright blow in my behalf; nor, in fact,

do I perceive that any real and tangible good has resulted from his

constant interference in my affairs; so that, in my distrustful moods,

I am apt to suspect Monsieur du Miroir’s sympathy to be mere outward

show, not a whit better nor worse than other people’s sympathy.

Nevertheless, as mortal man must have something in the guise of

sympathy,—and whether the true metal, or merely copper-washed, is of

less moment,—I choose rather to content myself with Monsieur du

Miroir’s, such as it is, than to seek the sterling coin, and perhaps

miss even the counterfeit.

In my age of vanities I have often seen him in the ballroom, and might

again were I to seek him there. We have encountered each other at the

Tremont Theatre, where, however, he took his seat neither in the

dress-circle, pit, nor upper regions, nor threw a single glance at the

stage, though the brightest star, even Fanny Kemble herself, might be

culminating there. No; this whimsical friend of mine chose to linger in

the saloon, near one of the large looking-glasses which throw back

their pictures of the illuminated room. He is so full of these

unaccountable eccentricities that I never like to notice Monsieur du

Miroir, nor to acknowledge the slightest connection with him, in places

of public resort. He, however, has no scruple about claiming my

acquaintance, even when his common-sense, if he had any, might teach

him that I would as willingly exchange a nod with the Old Nick. It was

but the other day that he got into a large brass kettle at the entrance

of a hardware-store, and thrust his head, the moment afterwards, into a

bright, new warming-pan, whence he gave me a most merciless look of

recognition. He smiled, and so did I; but these childish tricks make

decent people rather shy of Monsieur du Miroir, and subject him to more

dead cuts than any other gentleman in town.

One of this singular person’s most remarkable peculiarities is his

fondness for water, wherein he excels any temperance man whatever. His

pleasure, it must be owned, is not so much to drink it (in which

respect a very moderate quantity will answer his occasions) as to souse

himself over head and ears wherever he may meet with it. Perhaps he is

a merman, or born of a mermaid’s marriage with a mortal, and thus

amphibious by hereditary right, like the children which the old river

deities, or nymphs of fountains, gave to earthly love. When no cleaner

bathing-place happened to be at hand, I have seen the foolish fellow in

a horse-pond. Some times he refreshes himself in the trough of a

town-pump, without caring what the people think about him. Often, while

carefully picking my way along the street after a heavy shower, I have

been scandalized to see Monsieur du Miroir, in full dress, paddling

from one mud-puddle to another, and plunging into the filthy depths of

each. Seldom have I peeped into a well without discerning this

ridiculous gentleman at the bottom, whence he gazes up, as through a

long telescopic tube, and probably makes discoveries among the stars by

daylight.

Wandering along lonesome paths or in pathless forests, when I

have come to virgin fountains of which it would have been pleasant to

deem myself the first discoverer, I have started to find Monsieur du

Miroir there before me. The solitude seemed lonelier for his presence.

I have leaned from a precipice that frowns over Lake George, which the

French call nature’s font of sacramental water, and used it in their

log-churches here and their cathedrals beyond the sea, and seen him far

below in that pure element. At Niagara, too, where I would gladly have

forgotten both myself and him, I could not help observing my companion

in the smooth water on the very verge of the cataract just above the

Table Rock. Were I to reach the sources of the Nile, I should expect to

meet him there. Unless he be another Ladurlad, whose garments the depth

of ocean could not moisten, it is difficult to conceive how he keeps

himself in any decent pickle; though I am bound to confess that his

clothes seem always as dry and comfortable as my own. But, as a friend,

I could wish that he would not so often expose himself in liquor.

All that I have hitherto related may be classed among those little

personal oddities which agreeably diversify the surface of society,

and, though they may sometimes annoy us, yet keep our daily intercourse

fresher and livelier than if they were done away. By an occasional

hint, however, I have endeavored to pave the way for stranger things to

come, which, had they been disclosed at once, Monsieur du Miroir might

have been deemed a shadow, and myself a person of no veracity, and this

truthful history a fabulous legend. But, now that the reader knows me

worthy of his confidence, I will begin to make him stare.

To speak frankly, then, I could bring the most astounding proofs that

Monsieur du Miroir is at least a conjurer, if not one of that unearthly

tribe with whom conjurers deal. He has inscrutable methods of conveying

himself from place to place with the rapidity of the swiftest steamboat

or rail-car. Brick walls and oaken doors and iron bolts are no

impediment to his passage. Here in my chamber, for instance, as the

evening deepens into night, I sit alone,—the key turned and withdrawn

from the lock, the keyhole stuffed with paper to keep out a peevish

little blast of wind.

Yet, lonely as I seem, were I to lift one of the

lamps and step five paces eastward, Monsieur du Miroir would be sure to

meet me with a lamp also in his hand; and were I to take the

stage-coach to-morrow, without giving him the least hint of my design,

and post onward till the week’s end, at whatever hotel I might find

myself I should expect to share my private apartment with this

inevitable Monsieur du Miroir. Or, out of a mere wayward fantasy, were

I to go, by moonlight, and stand beside the stone Pout of the Shaker

Spring at Canterbury, Monsieur du Miroir would set forth on the same

fool’s errand, and would not fail to meet me there. Shall I heighten

the reader’s wonder? While writing these latter sentences, I happened

to glance towards the large, round globe of one off the brass andirons,

and lo! a miniature apparition of Monsieur du Miroir, with his face

widened and grotesquely contorted, as if he were making fun of my

amazement! But he has played so many of these jokes that they begin to

lose their effect. Once, presumptuous that he was, he stole into the

heaven of a young lady’s eyes; so that, while I gazed and was dreaming

only of herself, I found him also in my dream. Years have so changed

him since that he need never hope to enter those heavenly orbs again.

From these veritable statements it will be readily concluded that, had

Monsieur du Miroir played such pranks in old witch times, matters might

have gone hard with him; at least if the constable and posse comitatus

could have executed a warrant, or the jailer had been cunning enough to

keep him. But it has often occurred to me as a very singular

circumstance, and as betokening either a temperament morbidly

suspicious or some weighty cause of apprehension, that he never trusts

himself within the grasp even of his most intimate friend. If you step

forward to meet him, he readily advances; if you offer him your hand,

he extends his own with an air of the utmost frankness; but, though you

calculate upon a hearty shake, you do not get hold of his little

finger. Ah, this Monsieur du Miroir is a slippery fellow!

These truly are matters of special admiration. After vainly

endeavoring, by the strenuous exertion of my own wits, to gain a

satisfactory insight into the character of Monsieur du Miroir, I had

recourse to certain wise men, and also to books of abstruse philosophy,

seeking who it was that haunted me, and why.

I heard long lectures and

read huge volumes with little profit beyond the knowledge that many

former instances are recorded, in successive ages, of similar

connections between ordinary mortals and beings possessing the

attributes of Monsieur du Miroir. Some now alive, perhaps, besides

myself, have such attendants. Would that Monsieur du Miroir could be

persuaded to transfer his attachment to one of those, and allow some

other of his race to assume the situation that he now holds in regard

to me! If I must needs have so intrusive an intimate, who stares me in

the face in my closest privacy, and follows me even to my bedchamber, I

should prefer—scandal apart—the laughing bloom of a young girl to the

dark and bearded gravity of my present companion. But such desires are

never to be gratified. Though the members of Monsieur du Miroir’s

family have been accused, perhaps justly, of visiting their friends

often in splendid halls, and seldom in darksome dungeons, yet they

exhibit a rare constancy to the objects of their first attachment,

however unlovely in person or unamiable in disposition,—however

unfortunate, or even infamous, and deserted by all the world besides.

So will it be with my associate. Our fates appear inseparably blended.

It is my belief, as I find him mingling with my earliest recollections,

that we came into existence together, as my shadow follows me into the

sunshine, and that hereafter, as heretofore, the brightness or gloom of

my fortunes will shine upon, or darken, the face of Monsieur du Miroir.

As we have been young together, and as it is now near the summer noon

with both of us, so, if long life be granted, shall each count his own

wrinkles on the other’s brow and his white hairs on the other’s head.

And when the coffin-lid shall have closed over me and that face and

form, which, more truly than the lover swears it to his beloved, are

the sole light of his existence,—when they shall be laid in that dark

chamber, whither his swift and secret footsteps cannot bring him,—then

what is to become of poor Monsieur du Miroir? Will he have the

fortitude, with my other friends, to take a last look at my pale

countenance? Will he walk foremost in the funeral train? Will he come

often and haunt around my grave, and weed away the nettles, and plant

flowers amid the verdure, and scrape the moss out of the letters of my

burial-stone? Will he linger where I have lived, to remind the

neglectful world of one who staked much to win a name, but will not

then care whether he lost or won?

Not thus will he prove his deep fidelity.

O, what terror, if this

friend of mine, after our last farewell, should step into the crowded

street, or roam along our old frequented path by the still waters, or

sit down in the domestic circle where our faces are most familiar and

beloved! No; but when the rays of heaven shall bless me no more, nor

the thoughtful lamplight gleam upon my studies, nor the cheerful

fireside gladden the meditative man, then, his task fulfilled, shall

this mysterious being vanish from the earth forever. He will pass to

the dark realm of nothingness, but will not find me there.

There is something fearful in bearing such a relation to a creature so

imperfectly known, and in the idea that, to a certain extent, all which

concerns myself will be reflected in its consequences upon him. When we

feel that another is to share the self-same fortune with ourselves we

judge more severely of our prospects, and withhold our confidence from

that delusive magic which appears to shed an infallibility of happiness

over our own pathway. Of late years, indeed, there has been much to

sadden my intercourse with Monsieur de Miroir. Had not our union been a

necessary condition of our life, we must have been estranged ere now.

In early youth, when my affections were warm and free, I loved him

well, and could always spend a pleasant hour in his society, chiefly

because it gave me an excellent opinion of myself. Speechless as he

was, Monsieur du Miroir had then a most agreeable way of calling me a

handsome fellow; and I, of course, returned the compliment; so that,

the more we kept each other’s company, the greater coxcombs we mutually

grew. But neither of us need apprehend any such misfortune now. When we

chance to meet,—for it is chance oftener than design,—each glances

sadly at the other’s forehead, dreading wrinkles there; and at our

temples, whence the hair is thinning away too early; and at the sunken

eyes, which no longer shed a gladsome light over the whole face. I

involuntarily peruse him as a record of my heavy youth, which has been

wasted in sluggishness for lack of hope and impulse, or equally thrown

away in toil that had no wise motive and has accomplished no good end.

I perceive that the tranquil gloom of a disappointed soul has darkened

through his countenance, where the blackness of the future seems to

mingle with the shadows of the past, giving him the aspect of a fated

man.

Is it too wild a thought that my fate may have assumed this image

of myself, and therefore haunts me with such inevitable pertinacity,

originating every act which it appears to imitate, while it deludes me

by pretending to share the events of which it is merely the emblem and

the prophecy? I must banish this idea, or it will throw too deep an awe

round my companion. At our next meeting, especially if it be at

midnight or in solitude, I fear that I shall glance aside and shudder;

in which case, as Monsieur du Miroir is extremely sensitive to

ill-treatment, he also will avert his eyes and express horror or

disgust.

But no; this is unworthy of me. As of old I sought his society for the

bewitching dreams of woman’s love which he inspired, and because I

fancied a bright fortune in his aspect, so now will I hold daily and

long communion with hint for the sake of the stern lessons that he will

teach my manhood. With folded arms we will sit face to face, and

lengthen out our silent converse till a wiser cheerfulness shall have

been wrought from the very texture of despondency. He will say, perhaps

indignantly, that it befits only him to mourn for the decay of outward

grace, which, while he possessed it, was his all. But have not you, he

will ask, a treasure in reserve, to which every year may add far more

value than age or death itself can snatch from that miserable clay? He

will tell me that though the bloom of life has been nipped with a

frost, yet the soul must not sit shivering in its cell, but bestir

itself manfully, and kindle a genial warmth from its own exercise

against; the autumnal and the wintry atmosphere. And I, in return, will

bid him be of good cheer, nor take it amiss that I must blanch his

locks and wrinkle him up like a wilted apple, since it shall be my

endeavor so to beautify his face with intellect and mild benevolence

that he shall profit immensely by the change. But here a smile will

glimmer somewhat sadly over Monsieur du Miroir’s visage.

When this subject shall have been sufficiently discussed we may take up

others as important. Reflecting upon his power of following me to the

remotest regions and into the deepest privacy, I will compare the

attempt to escape him to the hopeless race that men sometimes run with

memory, or their own hearts, or their moral selves, which, though

burdened with cares enough to crush an elephant, will never be one step

behind.

I will be self-contemplative, as nature bids me, and make him

the picture or visible type of what I muse upon, that my mind may not

wander so vaguely as heretofore, chasing its own shadow through a chaos

and catching only the monsters that abide there. Then will we turn our

thoughts to the spiritual world, of the reality of which my companions

shall furnish me an illustration, if not an argument; for, as we have

only the testimony of the eye to Monsieur du Miroir’s existence, while

all the other senses would fail to inform us that such a figure stands

within arm’s-length, wherefore should there not be beings innumerable

close beside us, and filling heaven and earth with their multitude, yet

of whom no corporeal perception can take cognizance? A blind man might

as reasonably deny that Monsieur du Miroir exists, as we, because the

Creator has hitherto withheld the spiritual perception, can therefore

contend that there are no spirits. O, there are! And, at this moment,

when the subject of which I write has grown strong within me and

surrounded itself with those solemn and awful associations which might

have seemed most alien to it, I could fancy that Monsieur du Miroir

himself is a wanderer from the spiritual world, with nothing human

except his delusive garment of visibility. Methinks I should tremble

now were his wizard power of gliding through all impediments in search

of me to place him suddenly before my eyes.

Ha! What is yonder? Shape of mystery, did the tremor of my heartstrings

vibrate to thine own, and call thee from thy home among the dancers of

the northern lights, and shadows flung from departed sunshine, and

giant spectres that appear on clouds at daybreak and affright the

climber of the Alps? In truth it startled me, as I threw a wary glance

eastward across the chamber, to discern an unbidden guest with his eyes

bent on mine. The identical MONSIEUR DU MIROIR! Still there he sits and

returns my gaze with as much of awe and curiosity as if he, too, had

spent a solitary evening in fantastic musings and made me his theme. So

inimitably does he counterfeit that I could almost doubt which of us is

the visionary form, or whether each be not the other’s mystery, and

both twin brethren of one fate, in mutually reflected spheres.

O

friend, canst thou not hear and answer me? Break down the barrier

between us! Grasp my hand! Speak! Listen! A few words, perhaps, might

satisfy the feverish yearning of my soul for some master-thought that

should guide me through this labyrinth of life, teaching wherefore I

was born, and how to do my task on earth, and what is death. Alas! Even

that unreal image should forget to ape me and smile at these vain

questions. Thus do mortals deify, as it were, a mere shadow of

themselves, a spectre of human reason, and ask of that to unveil the

mysteries which Divine Intelligence has revealed so far as needful to

our guidance, and hid the rest.

Farewell, Monsieur du Miroir. Of you, perhaps, as of many men, it may

be doubted whether you are the wiser, though your whole business is

REFLECTION.

Chapter 10.

THE HALL OF FANTASY.

It has happened to me, on various occasions, to find myself in a

certain edifice which would appear to have some of the characteristics

of a public exchange. Its interior is a spacious hall, with a pavement

of white marble. Overhead is a lofty dome, supported by long rows of

pillars of fantastic architecture, the idea of which was probably taken

from the Moorish ruins of the Alhambra, or perhaps from some enchanted

edifice in the Arabian tales. The windows of this hall have a breadth

and grandeur of design and an elaborateness of workmanship that have

nowhere been equalled, except in the Gothic cathedrals of the Old

World. Like their prototypes, too, they admit the light of heaven only

through stained and pictured glass, thus filling the hall with

many-colored radiance and painting its marble floor with beautiful or

grotesque designs; so that its inmates breathe, as it were, a visionary

atmosphere, and tread upon the fantasies of poetic minds. These

peculiarities, combining a wilder mixture of styles than even an

American architect usually recognizes as allowable,—Grecian, Gothic,

Oriental, and nondescript,—cause the whole edifice to give the

impression of a dream, which might be dissipated and shattered to

fragments by merely stamping the foot upon the pavement. Yet, with such

modifications and repairs as successive ages demand, the Hall of

Fantasy is likely to endure longer than the most substantial structure

that ever cumbered the earth.

It is not at all times that one can gain admittance into this edifice,

although most persons enter it at some period or other of their lives;

if not in their waking moments, then by the universal passport of a

dream.

At my last visit I wandered thither unawares while my mind was

busy with an idle tale, and was startled by the throng of people who

seemed suddenly to rise up around me.

“Bless me! Where am I?” cried I, with but a dim recognition of the

place.

“You are in a spot,” said a friend who chanced to be near at hand,

“which occupies in the world of fancy the same position which the

Bourse, the Rialto, and the Exchange do in the commercial world. All

who have affairs in that mystic region, which lies above, below, or

beyond the actual, may here meet and talk over the business of their

dreams.”

“It is a noble hall,” observed I.

“Yes,” he replied. “Yet we see but a small portion of the edifice. In

its upper stories are said to be apartments where the inhabitants of

earth may hold converse with those of the moon; and beneath our feet

are gloomy cells, which communicate with the infernal regions, and

where monsters and chimeras are kept in confinement and fed with all

unwholesomeness.”

In niches and on pedestals around about the hall stood the statues or

busts of men who in every age have been rulers and demigods in the

realms of imagination and its kindred regions. The grand old

countenance of Homer; the shrunken and decrepit form but vivid face of

AEsop; the dark presence of Dante; the wild Ariosto; Rabelais’s smile

of deep-wrought mirth, the profound, pathetic humor of Cervantes; the

all-glorious Shakespeare; Spenser, meet guest for an allegoric

structure; the severe divinity of Milton; and Bunyan, moulded of

homeliest clay, but instinct with celestial fire,—were those that

chiefly attracted my eye. Fielding, Richardson, and Scott occupied

conspicuous pedestals. In an obscure and shadowy niche was deposited

the bust of our countryman, the author of Arthur Mervyn.

“Besides these indestructible memorials of real genius,” remarked my

companion, “each century has erected statues of its own ephemeral

favorites in wood.”

“I observe a few crumbling relics of such,” said I. “But ever and anon,

I suppose, Oblivion comes with her huge broom and sweeps them all from

the marble floor. But such will never be the fate of this fine statue

of Goethe.”

“Nor of that next to it,—Emanuel Swedenborg,” said he. “Were ever two

men of transcendent imagination more unlike?”

In the centre of the hall springs an ornamental fountain, the water of

which continually throws itself into new shapes and snatches the most

diversified lines from the stained atmosphere around.

It is impossible

to conceive what a strange vivacity is imparted to the scene by the

magic dance of this fountain, with its endless transformations, in

which the imaginative beholder may discern what form he will. The water

is supposed by some to flow from the same source as the Castalian

spring, and is extolled by others as uniting the virtues of the

Fountain of Youth with those of many other enchanted wells long

celebrated in tale and song. Having never tasted it, I can bear no

testimony to its quality.

“Did you ever drink this water?” I inquired of my friend.

“A few sips now and then,” answered he. “But there are men here who

make it their constant beverage,—or, at least, have the credit of doing

so. In some instances it is known to have intoxicating qualities.”

“Pray let us look at these water-drinkers,” said I.

So we passed among the fantastic pillars till we came to a spot where a

number of persons were clustered together in the light of one of the

great stained windows, which seemed to glorify the whole group as well

as the marble that they trod on. Most of them were men of broad

foreheads, meditative countenances, and thoughtful, inward eyes; yet it

required but a trifle to summon up mirth, peeping out from the very

midst of grave and lofty musings. Some strode about, or leaned against

the pillars of the hall, alone and in silence; their faces wore a rapt

expression, as if sweet music were in the air around them, or as if

their inmost souls were about to float away in song. One or two,

perhaps, stole a glance at the bystanders, to watch if their poetic

absorption were observed. Others stood talking in groups, with a

liveliness of expression, a ready smile, and a light, intellectual

laughter, which showed how rapidly the shafts of wit were glancing to

and fro among them.

A few held higher converse, which caused their calm and melancholy

souls to beam moonlight from their eyes. As I lingered near them,—for I

felt an inward attraction towards these men, as if the sympathy of

feeling, if not of genius, had united me to their order,—my friend

mentioned several of their names. The world has likewise heard those

names; with some it has been familiar for years; and others are daily

making their way deeper into the universal heart.

“Thank Heaven,” observed I to my companion, as we passed to another

part of the hall, “we have done with this techy, wayward, shy, proud

unreasonable set of laurel-gatherers. I love them in their works, but

have little desire to meet them elsewhere.

“You have adopted all old prejudice, I see,” replied my friend, who was

familiar with most of these worthies, being himself a student of

poetry, and not without the poetic flame. “But, so far as my experience

goes, men of genius are fairly gifted with the social qualities; and in

this age there appears to be a fellow-feeling among them which had not

heretofore been developed. As men, they ask nothing better than to be

on equal terms with their fellow-men; and as authors, they have thrown

aside their proverbial jealousy, and acknowledge a generous

brotherhood.”

“The world does not think so,” answered I. “An author is received in

general society pretty much as we honest citizens are in the Hall of

Fantasy. We gaze at him as if he had no business among us, and question

whether he is fit for any of our pursuits.”

“Then it is a very foolish question,” said he. “Now, here are a class

of men whom we may daily meet on ’Change. Yet what poet in the hall is

more a fool of fancy than the sagest of them?”

He pointed to a number of persons, who, manifest as the fact was, would

have deemed it an insult to be told that they stood in the Hall of

Fantasy. Their visages were traced into wrinkles and furrows, each of

which seemed the record of some actual experience in life. Their eyes

had the shrewd, calculating glance which detects so quickly and so

surely all that it concerns a man of business to know about the

characters and purposes of his fellow-men. Judging them as they stood,

they might be honored and trusted members of the Chamber of Commerce,

who had found the genuine secret of wealth and whose sagacity gave them

the command of fortune.

There was a character of detail and matter of fact in their talk which

concealed the extravagance of its purport, insomuch that the wildest

schemes had the aspect of everyday realities. Thus the listener was not

startled at the idea of cities to be built, as if by magic, in the

heart of pathless forests; and of streets to be laid out where now the

sea was tossing; and of mighty rivers to be stayed in their courses in

order to turn the machinery of a cotton-mill. It was only by an effort,

and scarcely then, that the mind convinced itself that such

speculations were as much matter of fantasy as the old dream of

Eldorado, or as Mammon’s Cave, or any other vision of gold ever

conjured up by the imagination of needy poet or romantic adventurer.

“Upon my word,” said I, “it is dangerous to listen to such dreamers as

these. Their madness is contagious.

“Yes,” said my friend, “because they mistake the Hall of Fantasy for

actual brick and mortar, and its purple atmosphere for unsophisticated

sunshine. But the poet knows his whereabout, and therefore is less

likely to make a fool of himself in real life.”

“Here again,” observed I, as we advanced a little farther, “we see

another order of dreamers, peculiarly characteristic, too, of the

genius of our country.”

These were the inventors of fantastic machines. Models of their

contrivances were placed against some of the pillars of the hall, and

afforded good emblems of the result generally to be anticipated from an

attempt to reduce day-dreams to practice. The analogy may hold in

morals as well as physics; for instance, here was the model of a

railroad through the air and a tunnel under the sea. Here was a

machine—stolen, I believe—for the distillation of heat from moonshine;

and another for the condensation of morning mist into square blocks of

granite, wherewith it was proposed to rebuild the entire Hall of

Fantasy. One man exhibited a sort of lens whereby he had succeeded in

making sunshine out of a lady’s smile; and it was his purpose wholly to

irradiate the earth by means of this wonderful invention.

“It is nothing new,” said I; “for most of our sunshine comes from

woman’s smile already.”

“True,” answered the inventor; “but my machine will secure a constant

supply for domestic use; whereas hitherto it has been very precarious.”

Another person had a scheme for fixing the reflections of objects in a

pool of water, and thus taking the most life-like portraits imaginable;

and the same gentleman demonstrated the practicability of giving a

permanent dye to ladies’ dresses, in the gorgeous clouds of sunset.

There were at least fifty kinds of perpetual motion, one of which was

applicable to the wits of newspaper editors and writers of every

description. Professor Espy was here, with a tremendous storm in a

gum-elastic bag. I could enumerate many more of these Utopian

inventions; but, after all, a more imaginative collection is to be

found in the Patent Office at Washington.

Turning from the inventors we took a more general survey of the inmates

of the hall. Many persons were present whose right of entrance appeared

to consist in some crotchet of the brain, which, so long as it might

operate, produced a change in their relation to the actual world.

It is

singular how very few there are who do not occasionally gain admittance

on such a score, either in abstracted musings, or momentary thoughts,

or bright anticipations, or vivid remembrances; for even the actual

becomes ideal, whether in hope or memory, and beguiles the dreamer into

the Hall of Fantasy. Some unfortunates make their whole abode and

business here, and contract habits which unfit them for all the real

employments of life. Others—but these are few—possess the faculty, in

their occasional visits, of discovering a purer truth than the world

call impart among the lights and shadows of these pictured windows.

And with all its dangerous influences, we have reason to thank God that

there is such a place of refuge from the gloom and chillness of actual

life. Hither may come the prisoner, escaping from his dark and narrow

cell and cankerous chain, to breathe free air in this enchanted

atmosphere. The sick man leaves his weary pillow, and finds strength to

wander hither, though his wasted limbs might not support him even to

the threshold of his chamber. The exile passes through the Hall of

Fantasy to revisit his native soil. The burden of years rolls down from

the old man’s shoulders the moment that the door uncloses. Mourners

leave their heavy sorrows at the entrance, and here rejoin the lost

ones whose faces would else be seen no more, until thought shall have

become the only fact. It may be said, in truth, that there is but half

a life—the meaner and earthier half—for those who never find their way

into the hall. Nor must I fail to mention that in the observatory of

the edifice is kept that wonderful perspective-glass, through which the

shepherds of the Delectable Mountains showed Christian the far-off

gleam of the Celestial City. The eye of Faith still loves to gaze

through it.

“I observe some men here,” said I to my friend, “who might set up a

strong claim to be reckoned among the most real personages of the day.”

“Certainly,” he replied. “If a man be in advance of his age, he must be

content to make his abode in this hall until the lingering generations

of his fellow-men come up with him. He can find no other shelter in the

universe. But the fantasies of one day are the deepest realities of a

future one.”

“It is difficult to distinguish them apart amid the gorgeous and

bewildering light of this ball,” rejoined I. “The white sunshine of

actual life is necessary in order to test them. I am rather apt to

doubt both men and their reasonings till I meet them in that truthful

medium.

“Perhaps your faith in the ideal is deeper than you are aware,” said my

friend. “You are at least a democrat; and methinks no scanty share of

such faith is essential to the adoption of that creed.”

Among the characters who had elicited these remarks were most of the

noted reformers of the day, whether in physics, politics, morals, or

religion. There is no surer method of arriving at the Hall of Fantasy

than to throw one’s-self into the current of a theory; for, whatever

landmarks of fact may be set up along the stream, there is a law of

nature that impels it thither. And let it be so; for here the wise head

and capacious heart may do their work; and what is good and true

becomes gradually hardened into fact, while error melts away and

vanishes among the shadows of the ball. Therefore may none who believe

and rejoice in the progress of mankind be angry with me because I

recognized their apostles and leaders amid the fantastic radiance of

those pictured windows. I love and honor such men as well as they.

It would be endless to describe the herd of real or self styled

reformers that peopled this place of refuge. They were the

representatives of an unquiet period, when mankind is seeking to cast

off the whole tissue of ancient custom like a tattered garment. Many of

then had got possession of some crystal fragment of truth, the

brightness of which so dazzled them that they could see nothing else in

the wide universe. Here were men whose faith had embodied itself in the

form of a potato; and others whose long beards had a deep spiritual

significance. Here was the abolitionist, brandishing his one idea like

an iron flail. In a word, there were a thousand shapes of good and

evil, faith and infidelity, wisdom and nonsense,—a most incongruous

throng.

Yet, withal, the heart of the stanchest conservative, unless he abjured

his fellowship with man, could hardly have helped throbbing in sympathy

with the spirit that pervaded these innumerable theorists. It was good

for the man of unquickened heart to listen even to their folly. Far

down beyond the fathom of the intellect the soul acknowledged that all

these varying and conflicting developments of humanity were united in

one sentiment. Be the individual theory as wild as fancy could make it,

still the wiser spirit would recognize the struggle of the race after a

better and purer life than had yet been realized on earth. My faith

revived even while I rejected all their schemes.

It could not be that

the world should continue forever what it has been; a soil where

Happiness is so rare a flower and Virtue so often a blighted fruit; a

battle-field where the good principle, with its shield flung above its

head, can hardly save itself amid the rush of adverse influences. In

the enthusiasm of such thoughts I gazed through one of the pictured

windows, and, behold! the whole external world was tinged with the

dimly glorious aspect that is peculiar to the Hall of Fantasy, insomuch

that it seemed practicable at that very instant to realize some plan

for the perfection of mankind. But, alas! if reformers would understand

the sphere in which their lot is cast they must cease to look through

pictured windows. Yet they not only use this medium, but mistake it for

the whitest sunshine.

“Come,” said I to my friend, starting from a deep revery, “let us

hasten hence, or I shall be tempted to make a theory, after which there

is little hope of any man.”

“Come hither, then,” answered he. “Here is one theory that swallows up

and annihilates all others.”

He led me to a distant part of the hall where a crowd of deeply

attentive auditors were assembled round an elderly man of plain,

honest, trustworthy aspect. With an earnestness that betokened the

sincerest faith in his own doctrine, he announced that the destruction

of the world was close at hand.

“It is Father Miller himself!” exclaimed I.

“No less a man,” said my friend; “and observe how picturesque a

contrast between his dogma and those of the reformers whom we have just

glanced at. They look for the earthly perfection of mankind, and are

forming schemes which imply that the immortal spirit will be connected

with a physical nature for innumerable ages of futurity. On the other

hand, here comes good Father Miller, and with one puff of his

relentless theory scatters all their dreams like so many withered

leaves upon the blast.”

“It is, perhaps, the only method of getting mankind out of the various

perplexities into which they have fallen,” I replied. “Yet I could wish

that the world might be permitted to endure until some great moral

shall have been evolved. A riddle is propounded. Where is the solution?

The sphinx did not slay herself until her riddle had been guessed. Will

it not be so with the world? Now, if it should be burned to-morrow

morning, I am at a loss to know what purpose will have been

accomplished, or how the universe will be wiser or better for our

existence and destruction.

“We cannot tell what mighty truths may have been embodied in act

through the existence of the globe and its inhabitants,” rejoined my

companion. “Perhaps it may be revealed to us after the fall of the

curtain over our catastrophe; or not impossibly, the whole drama, in

which we are involuntary actors, may have been performed for the

instruction of another set of spectators. I cannot perceive that our

own comprehension of it is at all essential to the matter. At any rate,

while our view is so ridiculously narrow and superficial it would be

absurd to argue the continuance of the world from the fact that it

seems to have existed hitherto in vain.”

“The poor old earth,” murmured I. “She has faults enough, in all

conscience, but I cannot hear to have her perish.”

“It is no great matter,” said my friend. “The happiest of us has been

weary of her many a time and oft.”

“I doubt it,” answered I, pertinaciously; “the root of human nature

strikes down deep into this earthly soil, and it is but reluctantly

that we submit to be transplanted, even for a higher cultivation in

heaven. I query whether the destruction of the earth would gratify any

one individual, except perhaps some embarrassed man of business whose

notes fall due a day after the day of doom.”

Then methought I heard the expostulating cry of a multitude against the

consummation prophesied by Father Miller. The lover wrestled with

Providence for his foreshadowed bliss. Parents entreated that the

earth’s span of endurance might be prolonged by some seventy years, so

that their new-born infant should not be defrauded of his lifetime. A

youthful poet murmured because there would be no posterity to recognize

the inspiration of his song. The reformers, one and all, demanded a few

thousand years to test their theories, after which the universe might

go to wreck. A mechanician, who was busied with an improvement of the

steam-engine, asked merely time to perfect his model. A miser insisted

that the world’s destruction would be a personal wrong to himself,

unless he should first be permitted to add a specified sum to his

enormous heap of gold. A little boy made dolorous inquiry whether the

last day would come before Christmas, and thus deprive him of his

anticipated dainties. In short, nobody seemed satisfied that this

mortal scene of things should have its close just now. Yet, it must be

confessed, the motives of the crowd for desiring its continuance were

mostly so absurd, that unless infinite Wisdom had been aware of much

better reasons, the solid earth must have melted away at once.

For my own part, not to speak of a few private and personal ends, I

really desired our old mother’s prolonged existence for her own dear

sake.

“The poor old earth!” I repeated. “What I should chiefly regret in her

destruction would be that very earthliness which no other sphere or

state of existence can renew or compensate. The fragrance of flowers

and of new-mown hay; the genial warmth of sunshine, and the beauty of a

sunset among clouds; the comfort and cheerful glow of the fireside; the

deliciousness of fruits and of all good cheer; the magnificence of

mountains, and seas, and cataracts, and the softer charm of rural

scenery; even the fast-falling snow and the gray atmosphere through

which it descends,—all these and innumerable other enjoyable things of

earth must perish with her. Then the country frolics; the homely humor;

the broad, open-mouthed roar of laughter, in which body and soul

conjoin so heartily! I fear that no other world call show its anything

just like this. As for purely moral enjoyments, the good will find them

in every state of being. But where the material and the moral exist

together, what is to happen then? And then our mute four-footed friends

and the winged songsters of our woods! Might it not be lawful to regret

them, even in the hallowed groves of paradise?”

“You speak like the very spirit of earth, imbued with a scent of

freshly turned soil,” exclaimed my friend.

“It is not that I so much object to giving up these enjoyments on my

own account,” continued I, “but I hate to think that they will have

been eternally annihilated from the list of joys.”

“Nor need they be,” he replied. “I see no real force in what you say.

Standing in this Hall of Fantasy, we perceive what even the

earth-clogged intellect of man can do in creating circumstances which,

though we call them shadowy and visionary, are scarcely more so than

those that surround us in actual life. Doubt not then that man’s

disembodied spirit may recreate time and the world for itself, with all

their peculiar enjoyments, should there still be human yearnings amid

life eternal and infinite. But I doubt whether we shall be inclined to

play such a poor scene over again.”

“O, you are ungrateful to our mother earth!” rejoined I. “Come what

may, I never will forget her! Neither will it satisfy me to have her

exist merely in idea. I want her great, round, solid self to endure

interminably, and still to be peopled with the kindly race of man, whom

I uphold to be much better than he thinks himself.

Nevertheless, I

confide the whole matter to Providence, and shall endeavor so to live

that the world may come to an end at any moment without leaving me at a

loss to find foothold somewhere else.”

“It is an excellent resolve,” said my companion, looking at his watch.

“But come; it is the dinner-hour. Will you partake of my vegetable

diet?”

A thing so matter of fact as an invitation to dinner, even when the

fare was to be nothing more substantial than vegetables and fruit,

compelled us forthwith to remove from the Hall of Fantasy. As we passed

out of the portal we met the spirits of several persons who had been

sent thither in magnetic sleep. I looked back among the sculptured

pillars and at the transformations of the gleaming fountain, and almost

desired that the whole of life might be spent in that visionary scene

where the actual world, with its hard angles, should never rub against

me, and only be viewed through the medium of pictured windows. But for

those who waste all their days in the Hall of Fantasy, good Father

Miller’s prophecy is already accomplished, and the solid earth has come

to an untimely end. Let us be content, therefore, with merely an

occasional visit, for the sake of spiritualizing the grossness of this

actual life, and prefiguring to ourselves a state in which the Idea

shall be all in all.

Chapter 11.

THE CELESTIAL RAILROAD.

Not a great while ago, passing through the gate of dreams, I visited

that region of the earth in which lies the famous City of Destruction.

It interested me much to learn that by the public spirit of some of the

inhabitants a railroad has recently been established between this

populous and flourishing town and the Celestial City. Having a little

time upon my hands, I resolved to gratify a liberal curiosity by making

a trip thither. Accordingly, one fine morning after paying my bill at

the hotel, and directing the porter to stow my luggage behind a coach,

I took my seat in the vehicle and set out for the station-house. It was

my good fortune to enjoy the company of a gentleman—one Mr.

Smooth-it-away—who, though he had never actually visited the Celestial

City, yet seemed as well acquainted with its laws, customs, policy, and

statistics, as with those of the City of Destruction, of which he was a

native townsman. Being, moreover, a director of the railroad

corporation and one of its largest stockholders, he had it in his power

to give me all desirable information respecting that praiseworthy

enterprise.

Our coach rattled out of the city, and at a short distance from its

outskirts passed over a bridge of elegant construction, but somewhat

too slight, as I imagined, to sustain any considerable weight. On both

sides lay an extensive quagmire, which could not have been more

disagreeable either to sight or smell, had all the kennels of the earth

emptied their pollution there.

“This,” remarked Mr. Smooth-it-away, “is the famous Slough of Despond—a

disgrace to all the neighborhood; and the greater that it might so

easily be converted into firm ground.”

“I have understood,” said I, “that efforts have been made for that

purpose from time immemorial. Bunyan mentions that above twenty

thousand cartloads of wholesome instructions had been thrown in here

without effect.”

“Very probably! And what effect could be anticipated from such

unsubstantial stuff?” cried Mr. Smooth-it-away. “You observe this

convenient bridge. We obtained a sufficient foundation for it by

throwing into the slough some editions of books of morality, volumes of

French philosophy and German rationalism; tracts, sermons, and essays

of modern clergymen; extracts from Plato, Confucius, and various Hindoo

sages together with a few ingenious commentaries upon texts of

Scripture,—all of which by some scientific process, have been converted

into a mass like granite. The whole bog might be filled up with similar

matter.”

It really seemed to me, however, that the bridge vibrated and heaved up

and down in a very formidable manner; and, in spite of Mr.

Smooth-it-away’s testimony to the solidity of its foundation, I should

be loath to cross it in a crowded omnibus, especially if each passenger

were encumbered with as heavy luggage as that gentleman and myself.

Nevertheless we got over without accident, and soon found ourselves at

the stationhouse. This very neat and spacious edifice is erected on the

site of the little wicket gate, which formerly, as all old pilgrims

will recollect, stood directly across the highway, and, by its

inconvenient narrowness, was a great obstruction to the traveller of

liberal mind and expansive stomach. The reader of John Bunyan will be

glad to know that Christian’s old friend Evangelist, who was accustomed

to supply each pilgrim with a mystic roll, now presides at the ticket

office. Some malicious persons it is true deny the identity of this

reputable character with the Evangelist of old times, and even pretend

to bring competent evidence of an imposture.

Without involving myself

in a dispute I shall merely observe that, so far as my experience goes,

the square pieces of pasteboard now delivered to passengers are much

more convenient and useful along the road than the antique roll of

parchment. Whether they will be as readily received at the gate of the

Celestial City I decline giving an opinion.

A large number of passengers were already at the station-house awaiting

the departure of the cars. By the aspect and demeanor of these persons

it was easy to judge that the feelings of the community had undergone a

very favorable change in reference to the celestial pilgrimage. It

would have done Bunyan’s heart good to see it. Instead of a lonely and

ragged man with a huge burden on his back, plodding along sorrowfully

on foot while the whole city hooted after him, here were parties of the

first gentry and most respectable people in the neighborhood setting

forth towards the Celestial City as cheerfully as if the pilgrimage

were merely a summer tour. Among the gentlemen were characters of

deserved eminence—magistrates, politicians, and men of wealth, by whose

example religion could not but be greatly recommended to their meaner

brethren. In the ladies’ apartment, too, I rejoiced to distinguish some

of those flowers of fashionable society who are so well fitted to adorn

the most elevated circles of the Celestial City. There was much

pleasant conversation about the news of the day, topics of business and

politics, or the lighter matters of amusement; while religion, though

indubitably the main thing at heart, was thrown tastefully into the

background. Even an infidel would have heard little or nothing to shock

his sensibility.

One great convenience of the new method of going on pilgrimage I must

not forget to mention. Our enormous burdens, instead of being carried

on our shoulders as had been the custom of old, were all snugly

deposited in the baggage car, and, as I was assured, would be delivered

to their respective owners at the journey’s end. Another thing,

likewise, the benevolent reader will be delighted to understand. It may

be remembered that there was an ancient feud between Prince Beelzebub

and the keeper of the wicket gate, and that the adherents of the former

distinguished personage were accustomed to shoot deadly arrows at

honest pilgrims while knocking at the door. This dispute, much to the

credit as well of the illustrious potentate above mentioned as of the

worthy and enlightened directors of the railroad, has been pacifically

arranged on the principle of mutual compromise.

The prince’s subjects

are now pretty numerously employed about the station-house, some in

taking care of the baggage, others in collecting fuel, feeding the

engines, and such congenial occupations; and I can conscientiously

affirm that persons more attentive to their business, more willing to

accommodate, or more generally agreeable to the passengers, are not to

be found on any railroad. Every good heart must surely exult at so

satisfactory an arrangement of an immemorial difficulty.

“Where is Mr. Greatheart?” inquired I. “Beyond a doubt the directors

have engaged that famous old champion to be chief conductor on the

railroad?”

“Why, no,” said Mr. Smooth-it-away, with a dry cough. “He was offered

the situation of brakeman; but, to tell you the truth, our friend

Greatheart has grown preposterously stiff and narrow in his old age. He

has so often guided pilgrims over the road on foot that he considers it

a sin to travel in any other fashion. Besides, the old fellow had

entered so heartily into the ancient feud with Prince Beelzebub that he

would have been perpetually at blows or ill language with some of the

prince’s subjects, and thus have embroiled us anew. So, on the whole,

we were not sorry when honest Greatheart went off to the Celestial City

in a huff and left us at liberty to choose a more suitable and

accommodating man. Yonder comes the engineer of the train. You will

probably recognize him at once.”

The engine at this moment took its station in advance of the cars,

looking, I must confess, much more like a sort of mechanical demon that

would hurry us to the infernal regions than a laudable contrivance for

smoothing our way to the Celestial City. On its top sat a personage

almost enveloped in smoke and flame, which, not to startle the reader,

appeared to gush from his own mouth and stomach as well as from the

engine’s brazen abdomen.

“Do my eyes deceive me?” cried I. “What on earth is this! A living

creature? If so, he is own brother to the engine he rides upon!”

“Poh, poh, you are obtuse!” said Mr. Smooth-it-away, with a hearty

laugh. “Don’t you know Apollyon, Christian’s old enemy, with whom he

fought so fierce a battle in the Valley of Humiliation? He was the very

fellow to manage the engine; and so we have reconciled him to the

custom of going on pilgrimage, and engaged him as chief engineer.”

“Bravo, bravo!” exclaimed I, with irrepressible enthusiasm; “this shows

the liberality of the age; this proves, if anything can, that all musty

prejudices are in a fair way to be obliterated.

And how will Christian

rejoice to hear of this happy transformation of his old antagonist! I

promise myself great pleasure in informing him of it when we reach the

Celestial City.”

The passengers being all comfortably seated, we now rattled away

merrily, accomplishing a greater distance in ten minutes than Christian

probably trudged over in a day. It was laughable, while we glanced

along, as it were, at the tail of a thunderbolt, to observe two dusty

foot travellers in the old pilgrim guise, with cockle shell and staff,

their mystic rolls of parchment in their hands and their intolerable

burdens on their backs. The preposterous obstinacy of these honest

people in persisting to groan and stumble along the difficult pathway

rather than take advantage of modern improvements, excited great mirth

among our wiser brotherhood. We greeted the two pilgrims with many

pleasant gibes and a roar of laughter; whereupon they gazed at us with

such woful and absurdly compassionate visages that our merriment grew

tenfold more obstreperous. Apollyon also entered heartily into the fun,

and contrived to flirt the smoke and flame of the engine, or of his own

breath, into their faces, and envelop them in an atmosphere of scalding

steam. These little practical jokes amused us mightily, and doubtless

afforded the pilgrims the gratification of considering themselves

martyrs.

At some distance from the railroad Mr. Smooth-it-away pointed to a

large, antique edifice, which, he observed, was a tavern of long

standing, and had formerly been a noted stopping-place for pilgrims. In

Bunyan’s road-book it is mentioned as the Interpreter’s House.

“I have long had a curiosity to visit that old mansion,” remarked I.

“It is not one of our stations, as you perceive,” said my companion

“The keeper was violently opposed to the railroad; and well he might

be, as the track left his house of entertainment on one side, and thus

was pretty certain to deprive him of all his reputable customers. But

the footpath still passes his door, and the old gentleman now and then

receives a call from some simple traveller, and entertains him with

fare as old-fashioned as himself.”

Before our talk on this subject came to a conclusion we were rushing by

the place where Christian’s burden fell from his shoulders at the sight

of the Cross. This served as a theme for Mr. Smooth-it-away, Mr.

Livefor-the-world, Mr. Hide-sin-in-the-heart, Mr. Scaly-conscience, and

a knot of gentlemen from the town of Shun-repentance, to descant upon

the inestimable advantages resulting from the safety of our baggage.

Myself, and all the passengers indeed, joined with great unanimity in

this view of the matter; for our burdens were rich in many things

esteemed precious throughout the world; and, especially, we each of us

possessed a great variety of favorite Habits, which we trusted would

not be out of fashion even in the polite circles of the Celestial City.

It would have been a sad spectacle to see such an assortment of

valuable articles tumbling into the sepulchre. Thus pleasantly

conversing on the favorable circumstances of our position as compared

with those of past pilgrims and of narrow-minded ones at the present

day, we soon found ourselves at the foot of the Hill Difficulty.

Through the very heart of this rocky mountain a tunnel has been

constructed of most admirable architecture, with a lofty arch and a

spacious double track; so that, unless the earth and rocks should

chance to crumble down, it will remain an eternal monument of the

builder’s skill and enterprise. It is a great though incidental

advantage that the materials from the heart of the Hill Difficulty have

been employed in filling up the Valley of Humiliation, thus obviating

the necessity of descending into that disagreeable and unwholesome

hollow.

“This is a wonderful improvement, indeed,” said I. “Yet I should have

been glad of an opportunity to visit the Palace Beautiful and be

introduced to the charming young ladies—Miss Prudence, Miss Piety, Miss

Charity, and the rest—who have the kindness to entertain pilgrims

there.”

“Young ladies!” cried Mr. Smooth-it-away, as soon as he could speak for

laughing. “And charming young ladies! Why, my dear fellow, they are old

maids, every soul of them—prim, starched, dry, and angular; and not one

of them, I will venture to say, has altered so much as the fashion of

her gown since the days of Christian’s pilgrimage.”

“Ah, well,” said I, much comforted, “then I can very readily dispense

with their acquaintance.”

The respectable Apollyon was now putting on the steam at a prodigious

rate, anxious, perhaps, to get rid of the unpleasant reminiscences

connected with the spot where he had so disastrously encountered

Christian. Consulting Mr. Bunyan’s road-book, I perceived that we must

now be within a few miles of the Valley of the Shadow of Death, into

which doleful region, at our present speed, we should plunge much

sooner than seemed at all desirable. In truth, I expected nothing

better than to find myself in the ditch on one side or the Quag on the

other; but on communicating my apprehensions to Mr.

Smooth-it-away, he

assured me that the difficulties of this passage, even in its worst

condition, had been vastly exaggerated, and that, in its present state

of improvement, I might consider myself as safe as on any railroad in

Christendom.

Even while we were speaking the train shot into the entrance of this

dreaded Valley. Though I plead guilty to some foolish palpitations of

the heart during our headlong rush over the causeway here constructed,

yet it were unjust to withhold the highest encomiums on the boldness of

its original conception and the ingenuity of those who executed it. It

was gratifying, likewise, to observe how much care had been taken to

dispel the everlasting gloom and supply the defect of cheerful

sunshine, not a ray of which has ever penetrated among these awful

shadows. For this purpose, the inflammable gas which exudes plentifully

from the soil is collected by means of pipes, and thence communicated

to a quadruple row of lamps along the whole extent of the passage. Thus

a radiance has been created even out of the fiery and sulphurous curse

that rests forever upon the valley—a radiance hurtful, however, to the

eyes, and somewhat bewildering, as I discovered by the changes which it

wrought in the visages of my companions. In this respect, as compared

with natural daylight, there is the same difference as between truth

and falsehood, but if the reader have ever travelled through the dark

Valley, he will have learned to be thankful for any light that he could

get—if not from the sky above, then from the blasted soil beneath. Such

was the red brilliancy of these lamps that they appeared to build walls

of fire on both sides of the track, between which we held our course at

lightning speed, while a reverberating thunder filled the Valley with

its echoes. Had the engine run off the track,—a catastrophe, it is

whispered, by no means unprecedented,—the bottomless pit, if there be

any such place, would undoubtedly have received us. Just as some dismal

fooleries of this nature had made my heart quake there came a

tremendous shriek, careering along the valley as if a thousand devils

had burst their lungs to utter it, but which proved to be merely the

whistle of the engine on arriving at a stopping-place.

The spot where we had now paused is the same that our friend Bunyan—a

truthful man, but infected with many fantastic notions—has designated,

in terms plainer than I like to repeat, as the mouth of the infernal

region. This, however, must be a mistake, inasmuch as Mr.

Smooth-it-away, while we remained in the smoky and lurid cavern, took

occasion to prove that Tophet has not even a metaphorical existence.

The place, he assured us, is no other than the crater of a half-extinct

volcano, in which the directors had caused forges to be set up for the

manufacture of railroad iron. Hence, also, is obtained a plentiful

supply of fuel for the use of the engines. Whoever had gazed into the

dismal obscurity of the broad cavern mouth, whence ever and anon darted

huge tongues of dusky flame, and had seen the strange, half-shaped

monsters, and visions of faces horribly grotesque, into which the smoke

seemed to wreathe itself, and had heard the awful murmurs, and shrieks,

and deep, shuddering whispers of the blast, sometimes forming

themselves into words almost articulate, would have seized upon Mr.

Smooth-it-away’s comfortable explanation as greedily as we did. The

inhabitants of the cavern, moreover, were unlovely personages, dark,

smoke-begrimed, generally deformed, with misshapen feet, and a glow of

dusky redness in their eyes as if their hearts had caught fire and were

blazing out of the upper windows. It struck me as a peculiarity that

the laborers at the forge and those who brought fuel to the engine,

when they began to draw short breath, positively emitted smoke from

their mouth and nostrils.

Among the idlers about the train, most of whom were puffing cigars

which they had lighted at the flame of the crater, I was perplexed to

notice several who, to my certain knowledge, had heretofore set forth

by railroad for the Celestial City. They looked dark, wild, and smoky,

with a singular resemblance, indeed, to the native inhabitants, like

whom, also, they had a disagreeable propensity to ill-natured gibes and

sneers, the habit of which had wrought a settled contortion of their

visages. Having been on speaking terms with one of these persons,—an

indolent, good-for-nothing fellow, who went by the name of

Take-it-easy,—I called him, and inquired what was his business there.

“Did you not start,” said I, “for the Celestial City?”

“That’s a fact,” said Mr. Take-it-easy, carelessly puffing some smoke

into my eyes. “But I heard such bad accounts that I never took pains to

climb the hill on which the city stands. No business doing, no fun

going on, nothing to drink, and no smoking allowed, and a thrumming of

church music from morning till night. I would not stay in such a place

if they offered me house room and living free.”

“But, my good Mr.

Take-it-easy,” cried I, “why take up your residence

here, of all places in the world?”

“Oh,” said the loafer, with a grin, “it is very warm hereabouts, and I

meet with plenty of old acquaintances, and altogether the place suits

me. I hope to see you back again some day soon. A pleasant journey to

you.”

While he was speaking the bell of the engine rang, and we dashed away

after dropping a few passengers, but receiving no new ones. Rattling

onward through the Valley, we were dazzled with the fiercely gleaming

gas lamps, as before. But sometimes, in the dark of intense brightness,

grim faces, that bore the aspect and expression of individual sins, or

evil passions, seemed to thrust themselves through the veil of light,

glaring upon us, and stretching forth a great, dusky hand, as if to

impede our progress. I almost thought that they were my own sins that

appalled me there. These were freaks of imagination—nothing more,

certainly-mere delusions, which I ought to be heartily ashamed of; but

all through the Dark Valley I was tormented, and pestered, and

dolefully bewildered with the same kind of waking dreams. The mephitic

gases of that region intoxicate the brain. As the light of natural day,

however, began to struggle with the glow of the lanterns, these vain

imaginations lost their vividness, and finally vanished from the first

ray of sunshine that greeted our escape from the Valley of the Shadow

of Death. Ere we had gone a mile beyond it I could well-nigh have taken

my oath that this whole gloomy passage was a dream.

At the end of the valley, as John Bunyan mentions, is a cavern, where,

in his days, dwelt two cruel giants, Pope and Pagan, who had strown the

ground about their residence with the bones of slaughtered pilgrims.

These vile old troglodytes are no longer there; but into their deserted

cave another terrible giant has thrust himself, and makes it his

business to seize upon honest travellers and fatten them for his table

with plentiful meals of smoke, mist, moonshine, raw potatoes, and

sawdust. He is a German by birth, and is called Giant

Transcendentalist; but as to his form, his features, his substance, and

his nature generally, it is the chief peculiarity of this huge

miscreant that neither he for himself, nor anybody for him, has ever

been able to describe them. As we rushed by the cavern’s mouth we

caught a hasty glimpse of him, looking somewhat like an

ill-proportioned figure, but considerably more like a heap of fog and

duskiness.

He shouted after us, but in so strange a phraseology that we

knew not what he meant, nor whether to be encouraged or affrighted.

It was late in the day when the train thundered into the ancient city

of Vanity, where Vanity Fair is still at the height of prosperity, and

exhibits an epitome of whatever is brilliant, gay, and fascinating

beneath the sun. As I purposed to make a considerable stay here, it

gratified me to learn that there is no longer the want of harmony

between the town’s-people and pilgrims, which impelled the former to

such lamentably mistaken measures as the persecution of Christian and

the fiery martyrdom of Faithful. On the contrary, as the new railroad

brings with it great trade and a constant influx of strangers, the lord

of Vanity Fair is its chief patron, and the capitalists of the city are

among the largest stockholders. Many passengers stop to take their

pleasure or make their profit in the Fair, instead of going onward to

the Celestial City. Indeed, such are the charms of the place that

people often affirm it to be the true and only heaven; stoutly

contending that there is no other, that those who seek further are mere

dreamers, and that, if the fabled brightness of the Celestial City lay

but a bare mile beyond the gates of Vanity, they would not be fools

enough to go thither. Without subscribing to these perhaps exaggerated

encomiums, I can truly say that my abode in the city was mainly

agreeable, and my intercourse with the inhabitants productive of much

amusement and instruction.

Being naturally of a serious turn, my attention was directed to the

solid advantages derivable from a residence here, rather than to the

effervescent pleasures which are the grand object with too many

visitants. The Christian reader, if he have had no accounts of the city

later than Bunyan’s time, will be surprised to hear that almost every

street has its church, and that the reverend clergy are nowhere held in

higher respect than at Vanity Fair. And well do they deserve such

honorable estimation; for the maxims of wisdom and virtue which fall

from their lips come from as deep a spiritual source, and tend to as

lofty a religious aim, as those of the sagest philosophers of old. In

justification of this high praise I need only mention the names of the

Rev. Mr. Shallow-deep, the Rev. Mr. Stumble-at-truth, that fine old

clerical character the Rev. Mr. This-today, who expects shortly to

resign his pulpit to the Rev. Mr. That-tomorrow; together with the Rev.

Mr. Bewilderment, the Rev. Mr. Clog-the-spirit, and, last and greatest,

the Rev. Dr.

Wind-of-doctrine. The labors of these eminent divines are

aided by those of innumerable lecturers, who diffuse such a various

profundity, in all subjects of human or celestial science, that any man

may acquire an omnigenous erudition without the trouble of even

learning to read. Thus literature is etherealized by assuming for its

medium the human voice; and knowledge, depositing all its heavier

particles, except, doubtless, its gold becomes exhaled into a sound,

which forthwith steals into the ever-open ear of the community. These

ingenious methods constitute a sort of machinery, by which thought and

study are done to every person’s hand without his putting himself to

the slightest inconvenience in the matter. There is another species of

machine for the wholesale manufacture of individual morality. This

excellent result is effected by societies for all manner of virtuous

purposes, with which a man has merely to connect himself, throwing, as

it were, his quota of virtue into the common stock, and the president

and directors will take care that the aggregate amount be well applied.

All these, and other wonderful improvements in ethics, religion, and

literature, being made plain to my comprehension by the ingenious Mr.

Smooth-it-away, inspired me with a vast admiration of Vanity Fair.

It would fill a volume, in an age of pamphlets, were I to record all my

observations in this great capital of human business and pleasure.

There was an unlimited range of society—the powerful, the wise, the

witty, and the famous in every walk of life; princes, presidents,

poets, generals, artists, actors, and philanthropists,—all making their

own market at the fair, and deeming no price too exorbitant for such

commodities as hit their fancy. It was well worth one’s while, even if

he had no idea of buying or selling, to loiter through the bazaars and

observe the various sorts of traffic that were going forward.

Some of the purchasers, I thought, made very foolish bargains. For

instance, a young man having inherited a splendid fortune, laid out a

considerable portion of it in the purchase of diseases, and finally

spent all the rest for a heavy lot of repentance and a suit of rags. A

very pretty girl bartered a heart as clear as crystal, and which seemed

her most valuable possession, for another jewel of the same kind, but

so worn and defaced as to be utterly worthless.

In one shop there were

a great many crowns of laurel and myrtle, which soldiers, authors,

statesmen, and various other people pressed eagerly to buy; some

purchased these paltry wreaths with their lives, others by a toilsome

servitude of years, and many sacrificed whatever was most valuable, yet

finally slunk away without the crown. There was a sort of stock or

scrip, called Conscience, which seemed to be in great demand, and would

purchase almost anything. Indeed, few rich commodities were to be

obtained without paying a heavy sum in this particular stock, and a

man’s business was seldom very lucrative unless he knew precisely when

and how to throw his hoard of conscience into the market. Yet as this

stock was the only thing of permanent value, whoever parted with it was

sure to find himself a loser in the long run. Several of the

speculations were of a questionable character. Occasionally a member of

Congress recruited his pocket by the sale of his constituents; and I

was assured that public officers have often sold their country at very

moderate prices. Thousands sold their happiness for a whim. Gilded

chains were in great demand, and purchased with almost any sacrifice.

In truth, those who desired, according to the old adage, to sell

anything valuable for a song, might find customers all over the Fair;

and there were innumerable messes of pottage, piping hot, for such as

chose to buy them with their birthrights. A few articles, however,

could not be found genuine at Vanity Fair. If a customer wished to

renew his stock of youth the dealers offered him a set of false teeth

and an auburn wig; if he demanded peace of mind, they recommended opium

or a brandy bottle.

Tracts of land and golden mansions, situate in the Celestial City, were

often exchanged, at very disadvantageous rates, for a few years’ lease

of small, dismal, inconvenient tenements in Vanity Fair. Prince

Beelzebub himself took great interest in this sort of traffic, and

sometimes condescended to meddle with smaller matters. I once had the

pleasure to see him bargaining with a miser for his soul, which, after

much ingenious skirmishing on both sides, his highness succeeded in

obtaining at about the value of sixpence. The prince remarked with a

smile, that he was a loser by the transaction.

Day after day, as I walked the streets of Vanity, my manners and

deportment became more and more like those of the inhabitants. The

place began to seem like home; the idea of pursuing my travels to the

Celestial City was almost obliterated from my mind.

I was reminded of

it, however, by the sight of the same pair of simple pilgrims at whom

we had laughed so heartily when Apollyon puffed smoke and steam into

their faces at the commencement of our journey. There they stood amidst

the densest bustle of Vanity; the dealers offering them their purple

and fine linen and jewels, the men of wit and humor gibing at them, a

pair of buxom ladies ogling them askance, while the benevolent Mr.

Smooth-it-away whispered some of his wisdom at their elbows, and

pointed to a newly-erected temple; but there were these worthy

simpletons, making the scene look wild and monstrous, merely by their

sturdy repudiation of all part in its business or pleasures.

One of them—his name was Stick-to-the-right—perceived in my face, I

suppose, a species of sympathy and almost admiration, which, to my own

great surprise, I could not help feeling for this pragmatic couple. It

prompted him to address me.

“Sir,” inquired he, with a sad, yet mild and kindly voice, “do you call

yourself a pilgrim?”

“Yes,” I replied, “my right to that appellation is indubitable. I am

merely a sojourner here in Vanity Fair, being bound to the Celestial

City by the new railroad.”

“Alas, friend,” rejoined Mr. Stick-to-the-truth, “I do assure you, and

beseech you to receive the truth of my words, that that whole concern

is a bubble. You may travel on it all your lifetime, were you to live

thousands of years, and yet never get beyond the limits of Vanity Fair.

Yea, though you should deem yourself entering the gates of the blessed

city, it will be nothing but a miserable delusion.”

“The Lord of the Celestial City,” began the other pilgrim, whose name

was Mr. Foot-it-to-heaven, “has refused, and will ever refuse, to grant

an act of incorporation for this railroad; and unless that be obtained,

no passenger can ever hope to enter his dominions. Wherefore every man

who buys a ticket must lay his account with losing the purchase money,

which is the value of his own soul.”

“Poh, nonsense!” said Mr. Smooth-it-away, taking my arm and leading me

off, “these fellows ought to be indicted for a libel. If the law stood

as it once did in Vanity Fair we should see them grinning through the

iron bars of the prison window.”

This incident made a considerable impression on my mind, and

contributed with other circumstances to indispose me to a permanent

residence in the city of Vanity; although, of course, I was not simple

enough to give up my original plan of gliding along easily and

commodiously by railroad. Still, I grew anxious to be gone.

There was

one strange thing that troubled me. Amid the occupations or amusements

of the Fair, nothing was more common than for a person—whether at

feast, theatre, or church, or trafficking for wealth and honors, or

whatever he might be doing, to vanish like a soap bubble, and be never

more seen of his fellows; and so accustomed were the latter to such

little accidents that they went on with their business as quietly as if

nothing had happened. But it was otherwise with me.

Finally, after a pretty long residence at the Fair, I resumed my

journey towards the Celestial City, still with Mr. Smooth-it-away at my

side. At a short distance beyond the suburbs of Vanity we passed the

ancient silver mine, of which Demas was the first discoverer, and which

is now wrought to great advantage, supplying nearly all the coined

currency of the world. A little further onward was the spot where Lot’s

wife had stood forever under the semblance of a pillar of salt. Curious

travellers have long since carried it away piecemeal. Had all regrets

been punished as rigorously as this poor dame’s were, my yearning for

the relinquished delights of Vanity Fair might have produced a similar

change in my own corporeal substance, and left me a warning to future

pilgrims.

The next remarkable object was a large edifice, constructed of

moss-grown stone, but in a modern and airy style of architecture. The

engine came to a pause in its vicinity, with the usual tremendous

shriek.

“This was formerly the castle of the redoubted giant Despair,” observed

Mr. Smooth-it-away; “but since his death Mr. Flimsy-faith has repaired

it, and keeps an excellent house of entertainment here. It is one of

our stopping-places.”

“It seems but slightly put together,” remarked I, looking at the frail

yet ponderous walls. “I do not envy Mr. Flimsy-faith his habitation.

Some day it will thunder down upon the heads of the occupants.”

“We shall escape at all events,” said Mr. Smooth-it-away, “for Apollyon

is putting on the steam again.”

The road now plunged into a gorge of the Delectable Mountains, and

traversed the field where in former ages the blind men wandered and

stumbled among the tombs. One of these ancient tombstones had been

thrust across the track by some malicious person, and gave the train of

cars a terrible jolt. Far up the rugged side of a mountain I perceived

a rusty iron door, half overgrown with bushes and creeping plants, but

with smoke issuing from its crevices.

“Is that,” inquired I, “the very door in the hill-side which the

shepherds assured Christian was a by-way to hell?”

“That was a joke on the part of the shepherds,” said Mr. Smooth-itaway,

with a smile. “It is neither more nor less than the door of a cavern

which they use as a smoke-house for the preparation of mutton hams.”

My recollections of the journey are now, for a little space, dim and

confused, inasmuch as a singular drowsiness here overcame me, owing to

the fact that we were passing over the enchanted ground, the air of

which encourages a disposition to sleep. I awoke, however, as soon as

we crossed the borders of the pleasant land of Beulah. All the

passengers were rubbing their eyes, comparing watches, and

congratulating one another on the prospect of arriving so seasonably at

the journey’s end. The sweet breezes of this happy clime came

refreshingly to our nostrils; we beheld the glimmering gush of silver

fountains, overhung by trees of beautiful foliage and delicious fruit,

which were propagated by grafts from the celestial gardens. Once, as we

dashed onward like a hurricane, there was a flutter of wings and the

bright appearance of an angel in the air, speeding forth on some

heavenly mission. The engine now announced the close vicinity of the

final station-house by one last and horrible scream, in which there

seemed to be distinguishable every kind of wailing and woe, and bitter

fierceness of wrath, all mixed up with the wild laughter of a devil or

a madman. Throughout our journey, at every stopping-place, Apollyon had

exercised his ingenuity in screwing the most abominable sounds out of

the whistle of the steam-engine; but in this closing effort he outdid

himself and created an infernal uproar, which, besides disturbing the

peaceful inhabitants of Beulah, must have sent its discord even through

the celestial gates.

While the horrid clamor was still ringing in our ears we heard an

exulting strain, as if a thousand instruments of music, with height and

depth and sweetness in their tones, at once tender and triumphant, were

struck in unison, to greet the approach of some illustrious hero, who

had fought the good fight and won a glorious victory, and was come to

lay aside his battered arms forever. Looking to ascertain what might be

the occasion of this glad harmony, I perceived, on alighting from the

cars, that a multitude of shining ones had assembled on the other side

of the river, to welcome two poor pilgrims, who were just emerging from

its depths.

They were the same whom Apollyon and ourselves had

persecuted with taunts, and gibes, and scalding steam, at the

commencement of our journey—the same whose unworldly aspect and

impressive words had stirred my conscience amid the wild revellers of

Vanity Fair.

“How amazingly well those men have got on,” cried I to Mr.

Smoothit—away. “I wish we were secure of as good a reception.”

“Never fear, never fear!” answered my friend. “Come, make haste; the

ferry boat will be off directly, and in three minutes you will be on

the other side of the river. No doubt you will find coaches to carry

you up to the city gates.”

A steam ferry boat, the last improvement on this important route, lay

at the river side, puffing, snorting, and emitting all those other

disagreeable utterances which betoken the departure to be immediate. I

hurried on board with the rest of the passengers, most of whom were in

great perturbation: some bawling out for their baggage; some tearing

their hair and exclaiming that the boat would explode or sink; some

already pale with the heaving of the stream; some gazing affrighted at

the ugly aspect of the steersman; and some still dizzy with the

slumberous influences of the Enchanted Ground. Looking back to the

shore, I was amazed to discern Mr. Smooth-it-away waving his hand in

token of farewell.

“Don’t you go over to the Celestial City?” exclaimed I.

“Oh, no!” answered he with a queer smile, and that same disagreeable

contortion of visage which I had remarked in the inhabitants of the

Dark Valley. “Oh, no! I have come thus far only for the sake of your

pleasant company. Good-by! We shall meet again.”

And then did my excellent friend Mr. Smooth-it-away laugh outright, in

the midst of which cachinnation a smoke-wreath issued from his mouth

and nostrils, while a twinkle of lurid flame darted out of either eye,

proving indubitably that his heart was all of a red blaze. The impudent

fiend! To deny the existence of Tophet, when he felt its fiery tortures

raging within his breast. I rushed to the side of the boat, intending

to fling myself on shore; but the wheels, as they began their

revolutions, threw a dash of spray over me so cold—so deadly cold, with

the chill that will never leave those waters until Death be drowned in

his own river—that with a shiver and a heartquake I awoke. Thank Heaven

it was a Dream!

Chapter 12.

THE PROCESSION OF LIFE.

Life figures itself to me as a festal or funereal procession. All of us

have our places, and are to move onward under the direction of the

Chief Marshal.

The grand difficulty results from the invariably

mistaken principles on which the deputy marshals seek to arrange this

immense concourse of people, so much more numerous than those that

train their interminable length through streets and highways in times

of political excitement. Their scheme is ancient, far beyond the memory

of man or even the record of history, and has hitherto been very little

modified by the innate sense of something wrong, and the dim perception

of better methods, that have disquieted all the ages through which the

procession has taken its march. Its members are classified by the

merest external circumstances, and thus are more certain to be thrown

out of their true positions than if no principle of arrangement were

attempted. In one part of the procession we see men of landed estate or

moneyed capital gravely keeping each other company, for the

preposterous reason that they chance to have a similar standing in the

tax-gatherer’s book. Trades and professions march together with

scarcely a more real bond of union. In this manner, it cannot be

denied, people are disentangled from the mass and separated into

various classes according to certain apparent relations; all have some

artificial badge which the world, and themselves among the first, learn

to consider as a genuine characteristic. Fixing our attention on such

outside shows of similarity or difference, we lose sight of those

realities by which nature, fortune, fate, or Providence has constituted

for every man a brotherhood, wherein it is one great office of human

wisdom to classify him. When the mind has once accustomed itself to a

proper arrangement of the Procession of Life, or a true classification

of society, even though merely speculative, there is thenceforth a

satisfaction which pretty well suffices for itself without the aid of

any actual reformation in the order of march.

For instance, assuming to myself the power of marshalling the aforesaid

procession, I direct a trumpeter to send forth a blast loud enough to

be heard from hence to China; and a herald, with world-pervading voice,

to make proclamation for a certain class of mortals to take their

places. What shall be their principle of union? After all, an external

one, in comparison with many that might be found, yet far more real

than those which the world has selected for a similar purpose. Let all

who are afflicted with like physical diseases form themselves into

ranks.

Our first attempt at classification is not very successful.

It may

gratify the pride of aristocracy to reflect that disease, more than any

other circumstance of human life, pays due observance to the

distinctions which rank and wealth, and poverty and lowliness, have

established among mankind. Some maladies are rich and precious, and

only to be acquired by the right of inheritance or purchased with gold.

Of this kind is the gout, which serves as a bond of brotherhood to the

purple-visaged gentry, who obey the herald’s voice, and painfully

hobble from all civilized regions of the globe to take their post in

the grand procession. In mercy to their toes, let us hope that the

march may not be long. The Dyspeptics, too, are people of good standing

in the world. For them the earliest salmon is caught in our eastern

rivers, and the shy woodcock stains the dry leaves with his blood in

his remotest haunts, and the turtle comes from the far Pacific Islands

to be gobbled up in soup. They can afford to flavor all their dishes

with indolence, which, in spite of the general opinion, is a sauce more

exquisitely piquant than appetite won by exercise. Apoplexy is another

highly respectable disease. We will rank together all who have the

symptom of dizziness in the brain, and as fast as any drop by the way

supply their places with new members of the board of aldermen.

On the other hand, here come whole tribes of people whose physical

lives are but a deteriorated variety of life, and themselves a meaner

species of mankind; so sad an effect has been wrought by the tainted

breath of cities, scanty and unwholesome food, destructive modes of

labor, and the lack of those moral supports that might partially have

counteracted such bad influences. Behold here a train of house

painters, all afflicted with a peculiar sort of colic. Next in place we

will marshal those workmen in cutlery, who have breathed a fatal

disorder into their lungs with the impalpable dust of steel. Tailors

and shoemakers, being sedentary men, will chiefly congregate into one

part of the procession and march under similar banners of disease; but

among them we may observe here and there a sickly student, who has left

his health between the leaves of classic volumes; and clerks, likewise,

who have caught their deaths on high official stools; and men of genius

too, who have written sheet after sheet with pens dipped in their

heart’s blood. These are a wretched quaking, short-breathed set.

But

what is this cloud of pale-cheeked, slender girls, who disturb the ear

with the multiplicity of their short, dry coughs? They are

seamstresses, who have plied the daily and nightly needle in the

service of master tailors and close-fisted contractors, until now it is

almost time for each to hem the borders of her own shroud. Consumption

points their place in the procession. With their sad sisterhood are

intermingled many youthful maidens who have sickened in aristocratic

mansions, and for whose aid science has unavailingly searched its

volumes, and whom breathless love has watched. In our ranks the rich

maiden and the poor seamstress may walk arm in arm. We might find

innumerable other instances, where the bond of mutual disease—not to

speak of nation-sweeping pestilence—embraces high and low, and makes

the king a brother of the clown. But it is not hard to own that disease

is the natural aristocrat. Let him keep his state, and have his

established orders of rank, and wear his royal mantle of the color of a

fever flush and let the noble and wealthy boast their own physical

infirmities, and display their symptoms as the badges of high station.

All things considered, these are as proper subjects of human pride as

any relations of human rank that men can fix upon.

Sound again, thou deep-breathed trumpeter! and herald, with thy voice

of might, shout forth another summons that shall reach the old baronial

castles of Europe, and the rudest cabin of our western wilderness! What

class is next to take its place in the procession of mortal life? Let

it be those whom the gifts of intellect have united in a noble

brotherhood.

Ay, this is a reality, before which the conventional distinctions of

society melt away like a vapor when we would grasp it with the hand.

Were Byron now alive, and Burns, the first would come from his

ancestral abbey, flinging aside, although unwillingly, the inherited

honors of a thousand years, to take the arm of the mighty peasant who

grew immortal while he stooped behind his plough. These are gone; but

the hall, the farmer’s fireside, the hut, perhaps the palace, the

counting-room, the workshop, the village, the city, life’s high places

and low ones, may all produce their poets, whom a common temperament

pervades like an electric sympathy. Peer or ploughman, we will muster

them pair by pair and shoulder to shoulder. Even society, in its most

artificial state, consents to this arrangement.

These factory girls

from Lowell shall mate themselves with the pride of drawing-rooms and

literary circles, the bluebells in fashion’s nosegay, the Sapphos, and

Montagues, and Nortons of the age. Other modes of intellect bring

together as strange companies. Silk-gowned professor of languages, give

your arm to this sturdy blacksmith, and deem yourself honored by the

conjunction, though you behold him grimy from the anvil. All varieties

of human speech are like his mother tongue to this rare man.

Indiscriminately let those take their places, of whatever rank they

come, who possess the kingly gifts to lead armies or to sway a

people—Nature’s generals, her lawgivers, her kings, and with them also

the deep philosophers who think the thought in one generation that is

to revolutionize society in the next. With the hereditary legislator in

whom eloquence is a far-descended attainment—a rich echo repeated by

powerful voices from Cicero downward—we will match some wondrous

backwoodsman, who has caught a wild power of language from the breeze

among his native forest boughs. But we may safely leave these brethren

and sisterhood to settle their own congenialities. Our ordinary

distinctions become so trifling, so impalpable, so ridiculously

visionary, in comparison with a classification founded on truth, that

all talk about the matter is immediately a common place.

Yet the longer I reflect the less am I satisfied with the idea of

forming a separate class of mankind on the basis of high intellectual

power. At best it is but a higher development of innate gifts common to

all. Perhaps, moreover, he whose genius appears deepest and truest

excels his fellows in nothing save the knack of expression; he throws

out occasionally a lucky hint at truths of which every human soul is

profoundly, though unutterably, conscious. Therefore, though we suffer

the brotherhood of intellect to march onward together, it may be

doubted whether their peculiar relation will not begin to vanish as

soon as the procession shall have passed beyond the circle of this

present world. But we do not classify for eternity.

And next, let the trumpet pour forth a funereal wail, and the herald’s

voice give breath in one vast cry to all the groans and grievous

utterances that are audible throughout the earth. We appeal now to the

sacred bond of sorrow, and summon the great multitude who labor under

similar afflictions to take their places in the march.

How many a heart that would have been insensible to any other call has

responded to the doleful accents of that voice! It has gone far and

wide, and high and low, and left scarcely a mortal roof unvisited.

Indeed, the principle is only too universal for our purpose, and,

unless we limit it, will quite break up our classification of mankind,

and convert the whole procession into a funeral train. We will

therefore be at some pains to discriminate. Here comes a lonely rich

man: he has built a noble fabric for his dwelling-house, with a front

of stately architecture and marble floors and doors of precious woods;

the whole structure is as beautiful as a dream and as substantial as

the native rock. But the visionary shapes of a long posterity, for

whose home this mansion was intended, have faded into nothingness since

the death of the founder’s only son. The rich man gives a glance at his

sable garb in one of the splendid mirrors of his drawing-room, and

descending a flight of lofty steps instinctively offers his arm to

yonder poverty stricken widow in the rusty black bonnet, and with a

check apron over her patched gown. The sailor boy, who was her sole

earthly stay, was washed overboard in a late tempest. This couple from

the palace and the almshouse are but the types of thousands more who

represent the dark tragedy of life and seldom quarrel for the upper

parts. Grief is such a leveller, with its own dignity and its own

humility, that the noble and the peasant, the beggar and the monarch,

will waive their pretensions to external rank without the officiousness

of interference on our part. If pride—the influence of the world’s

false distinctions—remain in the heart, then sorrow lacks the

earnestness which makes it holy and reverend. It loses its reality and

becomes a miserable shadow. On this ground we have an opportunity to

assign over multitudes who would willingly claim places here to other

parts of the procession. If the mourner have anything dearer than his

grief he must seek his true position elsewhere. There are so many

unsubstantial sorrows which the necessity of our mortal state begets on

idleness, that an observer, casting aside sentiment, is sometimes led

to question whether there be any real woe, except absolute physical

suffering and the loss of closest friends.

A crowd who exhibit what

they deem to be broken hearts—and among them many lovelorn maids and

bachelors, and men of disappointed ambition in arts or politics, and

the poor who were once rich, or who have sought to be rich in vain—the

great majority of these may ask admittance into some other fraternity.

There is no room here. Perhaps we may institute a separate class where

such unfortunates will naturally fall into the procession. Meanwhile

let them stand aside and patiently await their time.

If our trumpeter can borrow a note from the doomsday trumpet blast, let

him sound it now. The dread alarum should make the earth quake to its

centre, for the herald is about to address mankind with a summons to

which even the purest mortal may be sensible of some faint responding

echo in his breast. In many bosoms it will awaken a still small voice

more terrible than its own reverberating uproar.

The hideous appeal has swept around the globe. Come, all ye guilty

ones, and rank yourselves in accordance with the brotherhood of crime.

This, indeed, is an awful summons. I almost tremble to look at the

strange partnerships that begin to be formed, reluctantly, but by the

invincible necessity of like to like in this part of the procession. A

forger from the state prison seizes the arm of a distinguished

financier. How indignantly does the latter plead his fair reputation

upon ’Change, and insist that his operations, by their magnificence of

scope, were removed into quite another sphere of morality than those of

his pitiful companion! But let him cut the connection if he can. Here

comes a murderer with his clanking chains, and pairs himself—horrible

to tell—with as pure and upright a man, in all observable respects, as

ever partook of the consecrated bread and wine. He is one of those,

perchance the most hopeless of all sinners, who practise such an

exemplary system of outward duties, that even a deadly crime may be

hidden from their own sight and remembrance, under this unreal

frostwork. Yet he now finds his place. Why do that pair of flaunting

girls, with the pert, affected laugh and the sly leer at the

by-standers, intrude themselves into the same rank with yonder decorous

matron, and that somewhat prudish maiden? Surely these poor creatures,

born to vice as their sole and natural inheritance, can be no fit

associates for women who have been guarded round about by all the

proprieties of domestic life, and who could not err unless they first

created the opportunity.

Oh no; it must be merely the impertinence of

those unblushing hussies; and we can only wonder how such respectable

ladies should have responded to a summons that was not meant for them.

We shall make short work of this miserable class, each member of which

is entitled to grasp any other member’s hand, by that vile degradation

wherein guilty error has buried all alike. The foul fiend to whom it

properly belongs must relieve us of our loathsome task. Let the bond

servants of sin pass on. But neither man nor woman, in whom good

predominates, will smile or sneer, nor bid the Rogues’ March be played,

in derision of their array. Feeling within their breasts a shuddering

sympathy, which at least gives token of the sin that might have been,

they will thank God for any place in the grand procession of human

existence, save among those most wretched ones. Many, however, will be

astonished at the fatal impulse that drags them thitherward. Nothing is

more remarkable than the various deceptions by which guilt conceals

itself from the perpetrator’s conscience, and oftenest, perhaps, by the

splendor of its garments. Statesmen, rulers, generals, and all men who

act over an extensive sphere, are most liable to be deluded in this

way; they commit wrong, devastation, and murder, on so grand a scale,

that it impresses them as speculative rather than actual; but in our

procession we find them linked in detestable conjunction with the

meanest criminals whose deeds have the vulgarity of petty details. Here

the effect of circumstance and accident is done away, and a man finds

his rank according to the spirit of his crime, in whatever shape it may

have been developed.

We have called the Evil; now let us call the Good. The trumpet’s brazen

throat should pour heavenly music over the earth, and the herald’s

voice go forth with the sweetness of an angel’s accents, as if to

summon each upright man to his reward. But how is this? Does none

answer to the call? Not one: for the just, the pure, the true, and all

who might most worthily obey it, shrink sadly back, as most conscious

of error and imperfection. Then let the summons be to those whose

pervading principle is Love. This classification will embrace all the

truly good, and none in whose souls there exists not something that may

expand itself into a heaven, both of well-doing and felicity.

The first that presents himself is a man of wealth, who has bequeathed

the bulk of his property to a hospital; his ghost, methinks, would have

a better right here than his living body. But here they come, the

genuine benefactors of their race.

Some have wandered about the earth

with pictures of bliss in their imagination, and with hearts that

shrank sensitively from the idea of pain and woe, yet have studied all

varieties of misery that human nature can endure. The prison, the

insane asylum, the squalid chamber of the almshouse, the manufactory

where the demon of machinery annihilates the human soul, and the cotton

field where God’s image becomes a beast of burden; to these and every

other scene where man wrongs or neglects his brother, the apostles of

humanity have penetrated. This missionary, black with India’s burning

sunshine, shall give his arm to a pale-faced brother who has made

himself familiar with the infected alleys and loathsome haunts of vice

in one of our own cities. The generous founder of a college shall be

the partner of a maiden lady of narrow substance, one of whose good

deeds it has been to gather a little school of orphan children. If the

mighty merchant whose benefactions are reckoned by thousands of dollars

deem himself worthy, let him join the procession with her whose love

has proved itself by watchings at the sick-bed, and all those lowly

offices which bring her into actual contact with disease and

wretchedness. And with those whose impulses have guided them to

benevolent actions, we will rank others to whom Providence has assigned

a different tendency and different powers. Men who have spent their

lives in generous and holy contemplation for the human race; those who,

by a certain heavenliness of spirit, have purified the atmosphere

around them, and thus supplied a medium in which good and high things

may be projected and performed—give to these a lofty place among the

benefactors of mankind, although no deed, such as the world calls

deeds, may be recorded of them. There are some individuals of whom we

cannot conceive it proper that they should apply their hands to any

earthly instrument, or work out any definite act; and others, perhaps

not less high, to whom it is an essential attribute to labor in body as

well as spirit for the welfare of their brethren. Thus, if we find a

spiritual sage whose unseen, inestimable influence has exalted the

moral standard of mankind, we will choose for his companion some poor

laborer who has wrought for love in the potato field of a neighbor

poorer than himself.

We have summoned this various multitude—and, to the credit of our

nature, it is a large one—on the principle of Love.

It is singular,

nevertheless, to remark the shyness that exists among many members of

the present class, all of whom we might expect to recognize one another

by the freemasonry of mutual goodness, and to embrace like brethren,

giving God thanks for such various specimens of human excellence. But

it is far otherwise. Each sect surrounds its own righteousness with a

hedge of thorns. It is difficult for the good Christian to acknowledge

the good Pagan; almost impossible for the good Orthodox to grasp the

hand of the good Unitarian, leaving to their Creator to settle the

matters in dispute, and giving their mutual efforts strongly and

trustingly to whatever right thing is too evident to be mistaken. Then

again, though the heart be large, yet the mind is often of such

moderate dimensions as to be exclusively filled up with one idea. When

a good man has long devoted himself to a particular kind of

beneficence—to one species of reform—he is apt to become narrowed into

the limits of the path wherein he treads, and to fancy that there is no

other good to be done on earth but that self-same good to which he has

put his hand, and in the very mode that best suits his own conceptions.

All else is worthless. His scheme must be wrought out by the united

strength of the whole world’s stock of love, or the world is no longer

worthy of a position in the universe. Moreover, powerful Truth, being

the rich grape juice expressed from the vineyard of the ages, has an

intoxicating quality, when imbibed by any save a powerful intellect,

and often, as it were, impels the quaffer to quarrel in his cups. For

such reasons, strange to say, it is harder to contrive a friendly

arrangement of these brethren of love and righteousness, in the

procession of life, than to unite even the wicked, who, indeed, are

chained together by their crimes. The fact is too preposterous for

tears, too lugubrious for laughter.

But, let good men push and elbow one another as they may during their

earthly march, all will be peace among them when the honorable array of

their procession shall tread on heavenly ground. There they will

doubtless find that they have been working each for the other’s cause,

and that every well-delivered stroke, which, with an honest purpose any

mortal struck, even for a narrow object, was indeed stricken for the

universal cause of good. Their own view may be bounded by country,

creed, profession, the diversities of individual character—but above

them all is the breadth of Providence.

How many who have deemed

themselves antagonists will smile hereafter, when they look back upon

the world’s wide harvest field, and perceive that, in unconscious

brotherhood, they were helping to bind the selfsame sheaf!

But, come! The sun is hastening westward, while the march of human

life, that never paused before, is delayed by our attempt to rearrange

its order. It is desirable to find some comprehensive principle, that

shall render our task easier by bringing thousands into the ranks where

hitherto we have brought one. Therefore let the trumpet, if possible,

split its brazen throat with a louder note than ever, and the herald

summon all mortals, who, from whatever cause, have lost, or never

found, their proper places in the wold.

Obedient to this call, a great multitude come together, most of them

with a listless gait, betokening weariness of soul, yet with a gleam of

satisfaction in their faces, at a prospect of at length reaching those

positions which, hitherto, they have vainly sought. But here will be

another disappointment; for we can attempt no more than merely to

associate in one fraternity all who are afflicted with the same vague

trouble. Some great mistake in life is the chief condition of

admittance into this class. Here are members of the learned

professions, whom Providence endowed with special gifts for the plough,

the forge, and the wheelbarrow, or for the routine of unintellectual

business. We will assign to them, as partners in the march, those lowly

laborers and handicraftsmen, who have pined, as with a dying thirst,

after the unattainable fountains of knowledge. The latter have lost

less than their companions; yet more, because they deem it infinite.

Perchance the two species of unfortunates may comfort one another. Here

are Quakers with the instinct of battle in them; and men of war who

should have worn the broad brim. Authors shall be ranked here whom some

freak of Nature, making game of her poor children, had imbued with the

confidence of genius and strong desire of fame, but has favored with no

corresponding power; and others, whose lofty gifts were unaccompanied

with the faculty of expression, or any of that earthly machinery by

which ethereal endowments must be manifested to mankind. All these,

therefore, are melancholy laughing-stocks. Next, here are honest and

well intentioned persons, who by a want of tact—by inaccurate

perceptions—by a distorting imagination—have been kept continually at

cross purposes with the world and bewildered upon the path of life.

Let

us see if they can confine themselves within the line of our

procession. In this class, likewise, we must assign places to those who

have encountered that worst of ill success, a higher fortune than their

abilities could vindicate; writers, actors, painters, the pets of a

day, but whose laurels wither unrenewed amid their hoary hair;

politicians, whom some malicious contingency of affairs has thrust into

conspicuous station, where, while the world stands gazing at them, the

dreary consciousness of imbecility makes them curse their birth hour.

To such men, we give for a companion him whose rare talents, which

perhaps require a Revolution for their exercise, are buried in the tomb

of sluggish circumstances.

Not far from these, we must find room for one whose success has been of

the wrong kind; the man who should have lingered in the cloisters of a

university, digging new treasures out of the Herculaneum of antique

lore, diffusing depth and accuracy of literature throughout his

country, and thus making for himself a great and quiet fame. But the

outward tendencies around him have proved too powerful for his inward

nature, and have drawn him into the arena of political tumult, there to

contend at disadvantage, whether front to front, or side by side, with

the brawny giants of actual life. He becomes, it may be, a name for

brawling parties to bandy to and fro, a legislator of the Union; a

governor of his native state; an ambassador to the courts of kings or

queens; and the world may deem him a man of happy stars. But not so the

wise; and not so himself, when he looks through his experience, and

sighs to miss that fitness, the one invaluable touch which makes all

things true and real. So much achieved, yet how abortive is his life!

Whom shall we choose for his companion? Some weak framed blacksmith,

perhaps, whose delicacy of muscle might have suited a tailor’s

shopboard better than the anvil.

Shall we bid the trumpet sound again? It is hardly worth the while.

There remain a few idle men of fortune, tavern and grog-shop loungers,

lazzaroni, old bachelors, decaying maidens, and people of crooked

intellect or temper, all of whom may find their like, or some tolerable

approach to it, in the plentiful diversity of our latter class.

There

too, as his ultimate destiny, must we rank the dreamer, who, all his

life long, has cherished the idea that he was peculiarly apt for

something, but never could determine what it was; and there the most

unfortunate of men, whose purpose it has been to enjoy life’s

pleasures, but to avoid a manful struggle with its toil and sorrow. The

remainder, if any, may connect themselves with whatever rank of the

procession they shall find best adapted to their tastes and

consciences. The worst possible fate would be to remain behind,

shivering in the solitude of time, while all the world is on the move

towards eternity. Our attempt to classify society is now complete. The

result may be anything but perfect; yet better—to give it the very

lowest praise—than the antique rule of the herald’s office, or the

modern one of the tax-gatherer, whereby the accidents and superficial

attributes with which the real nature of individuals has least to do,

are acted upon as the deepest characteristics of mankind. Our task is

done! Now let the grand procession move!

Yet pause a while! We had forgotten the Chief Marshal.

Hark! That world-wide swell of solemn music, with the clang of a mighty

bell breaking forth through its regulated uproar, announces his

approach. He comes; a severe, sedate, immovable, dark rider, waving his

truncheon of universal sway, as he passes along the lengthened line, on

the pale horse of the Revelation. It is Death! Who else could assume

the guidance of a procession that comprehends all humanity? And if

some, among these many millions, should deem themselves classed amiss,

yet let them take to their hearts the comfortable truth that Death

levels us all into one great brotherhood, and that another state of

being will surely rectify the wrong of this. Then breathe thy wail upon

the earth’s wailing wind, thou band of melancholy music, made up of

every sigh that the human heart, unsatisfied, has uttered! There is yet

triumph in thy tones. And now we move! Beggars in their rags, and Kings

trailing the regal purple in the dust; the Warrior’s gleaming helmet;

the Priest in his sable robe; the hoary Grandsire, who has run life’s

circle and come back to childhood; the ruddy School-boy with his golden

curls, frisking along the march; the Artisan’s stuff jacket; the

Noble’s star-decorated coat;—the whole presenting a motley spectacle,

yet with a dusky grandeur brooding over it.

Onward, onward, into that

dimness where the lights of Time which have blazed along the

procession, are flickering in their sockets! And whither! We know not;

and Death, hitherto our leader, deserts us by the wayside, as the tramp

of our innumerable footsteps echoes beyond his sphere. He knows not,

more than we, our destined goal. But God, who made us, knows, and will

not leave us on our toilsome and doubtful march, either to wander in

infinite uncertainty, or perish by the way!

Chapter 13.

FEATHERTOP: A MORALIZED LEGEND.

“Dickon,” cried Mother Rigby, “a coal for my pipe!”

The pipe was in the old dame’s mouth when she said these words. She had

thrust it there after filling it with tobacco, but without stooping to

light it at the hearth, where indeed there was no appearance of a fire

having been kindled that morning. Forthwith, however, as soon as the

order was given, there was an intense red glow out of the bowl of the

pipe, and a whiff of smoke came from Mother Rigby’s lips. Whence the

coal came, and how brought thither by an invisible hand, I have never

been able to discover.

“Good!” quoth Mother Rigby, with a nod of her head. “Thank ye, Dickon!

And now for making this scarecrow. Be within call, Dickon, in case I

need you again.”

The good woman had risen thus early (for as yet it was scarcely

sunrise) in order to set about making a scarecrow, which she intended

to put in the middle of her corn-patch. It was now the latter week of

May, and the crows and blackbirds had already discovered the little,

green, rolledup leaf of the Indian corn just peeping out of the soil.

She was determined, therefore, to contrive as lifelike a scarecrow as

ever was seen, and to finish it immediately, from top to toe, so that

it should begin its sentinel’s duty that very morning. Now Mother Rigby

(as everybody must have heard) was one of the most cunning and potent

witches in New England, and might, with very little trouble, have made

a scarecrow ugly enough to frighten the minister himself. But on this

occasion, as she had awakened in an uncommonly pleasant humor, and was

further dulcified by her pipe tobacco, she resolved to produce

something fine, beautiful, and splendid, rather than hideous and

horrible.

“I don’t want to set up a hobgoblin in my own corn-patch, and almost at

my own doorstep,” said Mother Rigby to herself, puffing out a whiff of

smoke; “I could do it if I pleased, but I’m tired of doing marvellous

things, and so I’ll keep within the bounds of every-day business just

for variety’s sake.

Besides, there is no use in scaring the little

children for a mile roundabout, though ’tis true I’m a witch.”

It was settled, therefore, in her own mind, that the scarecrow should

represent a fine gentleman of the period, so far as the materials at

hand would allow. Perhaps it may be as well to enumerate the chief of

the articles that went to the composition of this figure.

The most important item of all, probably, although it made so little

show, was a certain broomstick, on which Mother Rigby had taken many an

airy gallop at midnight, and which now served the scarecrow by way of a

spinal column, or, as the unlearned phrase it, a backbone. One of its

arms was a disabled flail which used to be wielded by Goodman Rigby,

before his spouse worried him out of this troublesome world; the other,

if I mistake not, was composed of the pudding stick and a broken rung

of a chair, tied loosely together at the elbow. As for its legs, the

right was a hoe handle, and the left an undistinguished and

miscellaneous stick from the woodpile. Its lungs, stomach, and other

affairs of that kind were nothing better than a meal bag stuffed with

straw. Thus we have made out the skeleton and entire corporosity of the

scarecrow, with the exception of its head; and this was admirably

supplied by a somewhat withered and shrivelled pumpkin, in which Mother

Rigby cut two holes for the eyes and a slit for the mouth, leaving a

bluish-colored knob in the middle to pass for a nose. It was really

quite a respectable face.

“I’ve seen worse ones on human shoulders, at any rate,” said Mother

Rigby. “And many a fine gentleman has a pumpkin head, as well as my

scarecrow.”

But the clothes, in this case, were to be the making of the man. So the

good old woman took down from a peg an ancient plum-colored coat of

London make, and with relics of embroidery on its seams, cuffs,

pocket-flaps, and button-holes, but lamentably worn and faded, patched

at the elbows, tattered at the skirts, and threadbare all over. On the

left breast was a round hole, whence either a star of nobility had been

rent away, or else the hot heart of some former wearer had scorched it

through and through. The neighbors said that this rich garment belonged

to the Black Man’s wardrobe, and that he kept it at Mother Rigby’s

cottage for the convenience of slipping it on whenever he wished to

make a grand appearance at the governor’s table.

To match the coat

there was a velvet waistcoat of very ample size, and formerly

embroidered with foliage that had been as brightly golden as the maple

leaves in October, but which had now quite vanished out of the

substance of the velvet. Next came a pair of scarlet breeches, once

worn by the French governor of Louisbourg, and the knees of which had

touched the lower step of the throne of Louis le Grand. The Frenchman

had given these small-clothes to an Indian powwow, who parted with them

to the old witch for a gill of strong waters, at one of their dances in

the forest. Furthermore, Mother Rigby produced a pair of silk stockings

and put them on the figure’s legs, where they showed as unsubstantial

as a dream, with the wooden reality of the two sticks making itself

miserably apparent through the holes. Lastly, she put her dead

husband’s wig on the bare scalp of the pumpkin, and surmounted the

whole with a dusty three-cornered hat, in which was stuck the longest

tail feather of a rooster.

Then the old dame stood the figure up in a corner of her cottage and

chuckled to behold its yellow semblance of a visage, with its nobby

little nose thrust into the air. It had a strangely self-satisfied

aspect, and seemed to say, “Come look at me!”

“And you are well worth looking at, that’s a fact!” quoth Mother Rigby,

in admiration at her own handiwork. “I’ve made many a puppet since I’ve

been a witch, but methinks this is the finest of them all. ’Tis almost

too good for a scarecrow. And, by the by, I’ll just fill a fresh pipe

of tobacco and then take him out to the corn-patch.”

While filling her pipe the old woman continued to gaze with almost

motherly affection at the figure in the corner. To say the truth,

whether it were chance, or skill, or downright witchcraft, there was

something wonderfully human in this ridiculous shape, bedizened with

its tattered finery; and as for the countenance, it appeared to shrivel

its yellow surface into a grin—a funny kind of expression betwixt scorn

and merriment, as if it understood itself to be a jest at mankind. The

more Mother Rigby looked the better she was pleased.

“Dickon,” cried she sharply, “another coal for my pipe!”

Hardly had she spoken, than, just as before, there was a red-glowing

coal on the top of the tobacco. She drew in a long whiff and puffed it

forth again into the bar of morning sunshine which struggled through

the one dusty pane of her cottage window. Mother Rigby always liked to

flavor her pipe with a coal of fire from the particular chimney corner

whence this had been brought.

But where that chimney corner might be,

or who brought the coal from it,—further than that the invisible

messenger seemed to respond to the name of Dickon,—I cannot tell.

“That puppet yonder,” thought Mother Rigby, still with her eyes fixed

on the scarecrow, “is too good a piece of work to stand all summer in a

corn-patch, frightening away the crows and blackbirds. He’s capable of

better things. Why, I’ve danced with a worse one, when partners

happened to be scarce, at our witch meetings in the forest! What if I

should let him take his chance among the other men of straw and empty

fellows who go bustling about the world?”

The old witch took three or four more whiffs of her pipe and smiled.

“He’ll meet plenty of his brethren at every street corner!” continued

she. “Well; I didn’t mean to dabble in witchcraft to-day, further than

the lighting of my pipe, but a witch I am, and a witch I’m likely to

be, and there’s no use trying to shirk it. I’ll make a man of my

scarecrow, were it only for the joke’s sake!”

While muttering these words, Mother Rigby took the pipe from her own

mouth and thrust it into the crevice which represented the same feature

in the pumpkin visage of the scarecrow.

“Puff, darling, puff!” said she. “Puff away, my fine fellow! your life

depends on it!”

This was a strange exhortation, undoubtedly, to be addressed to a mere

thing of sticks, straw, and old clothes, with nothing better than a

shrivelled pumpkin for a head,—as we know to have been the scarecrow’s

case. Nevertheless, as we must carefully hold in remembrance, Mother

Rigby was a witch of singular power and dexterity; and, keeping this

fact duly before our minds, we shall see nothing beyond credibility in

the remarkable incidents of our story. Indeed, the great difficulty

will be at once got over, if we can only bring ourselves to believe

that, as soon as the old dame bade him puff, there came a whiff of

smoke from the scarecrow’s mouth. It was the very feeblest of whiffs,

to be sure; but it was followed by another and another, each more

decided than the preceding one.

“Puff away, my pet! puff away, my pretty one!” Mother Rigby kept

repeating, with her pleasantest smile. “It is the breath of life to ye;

and that you may take my word for.”

Beyond all question the pipe was bewitched. There must have been a

spell either in the tobacco or in the fiercely-glowing coal that so

mysteriously burned on top of it, or in the pungently-aromatic smoke

which exhaled from the kindled weed.

The figure, after a few doubtful

attempts at length blew forth a volley of smoke extending all the way

from the obscure corner into the bar of sunshine. There it eddied and

melted away among the motes of dust. It seemed a convulsive effort; for

the two or three next whiffs were fainter, although the coal still

glowed and threw a gleam over the scarecrow’s visage. The old witch

clapped her skinny hands together, and smiled encouragingly upon her

handiwork. She saw that the charm worked well. The shrivelled, yellow

face, which heretofore had been no face at all, had already a thin,

fantastic haze, as it were of human likeness, shifting to and fro

across it; sometimes vanishing entirely, but growing more perceptible

than ever with the next whiff from the pipe. The whole figure, in like

manner, assumed a show of life, such as we impart to ill-defined shapes

among the clouds, and half deceive ourselves with the pastime of our

own fancy.

If we must needs pry closely into the matter, it may be doubted whether

there was any real change, after all, in the sordid, wornout worthless,

and ill-jointed substance of the scarecrow; but merely a spectral

illusion, and a cunning effect of light and shade so colored and

contrived as to delude the eyes of most men. The miracles of witchcraft

seem always to have had a very shallow subtlety; and, at least, if the

above explanation do not hit the truth of the process, I can suggest no

better.

“Well puffed, my pretty lad!” still cried old Mother Rigby. “Come,

another good stout whiff, and let it be with might and main. Puff for

thy life, I tell thee! Puff out of the very bottom of thy heart, if any

heart thou hast, or any bottom to it! Well done, again! Thou didst suck

in that mouthful as if for the pure love of it.”

And then the witch beckoned to the scarecrow, throwing so much magnetic

potency into her gesture that it seemed as if it must inevitably be

obeyed, like the mystic call of the loadstone when it summons the iron.

“Why lurkest thou in the corner, lazy one?” said she. “Step forth! Thou

hast the world before thee!”

Upon my word, if the legend were not one which I heard on my

grandmother’s knee, and which had established its place among things

credible before my childish judgment could analyze its probability, I

question whether I should have the face to tell it now.

In obedience to Mother Rigby’s word, and extending its arm as if to

reach her outstretched hand, the figure made a step forward—a kind of

hitch and jerk, however, rather than a step—then tottered and almost

lost its balance.

What could the witch expect? It was nothing, after

all, but a scarecrow stuck upon two sticks. But the strong-willed old

beldam scowled, and beckoned, and flung the energy of her purpose so

forcibly at this poor combination of rotten wood, and musty straw, and

ragged garments, that it was compelled to show itself a man, in spite

of the reality of things. So it stepped into the bar of sunshine. There

it stood, poor devil of a contrivance that it was!—with only the

thinnest vesture of human similitude about it, through which was

evident the stiff, rickety, incongruous, faded, tattered,

good-for-nothing patchwork of its substance, ready to sink in a heap

upon the floor, as conscious of its own unworthiness to be erect. Shall

I confess the truth? At its present point of vivification, the

scarecrow reminds me of some of the lukewarm and abortive characters,

composed of heterogeneous materials, used for the thousandth time, and

never worth using, with which romance writers (and myself, no doubt,

among the rest) have so overpeopled the world of fiction.

But the fierce old hag began to get angry and show a glimpse of her

diabolic nature (like a snake’s head, peeping with a hiss out of her

bosom), at this pusillanimous behavior of the thing which she had taken

the trouble to put together.

“Puff away, wretch!” cried she, wrathfully. “Puff, puff, puff, thou

thing of straw and emptiness! thou rag or two! thou meal bag! thou

pumpkin head! thou nothing! Where shall I find a name vile enough to

call thee by? Puff, I say, and suck in thy fantastic life with the

smoke! else I snatch the pipe from thy mouth and hurl thee where that

red coal came from.”

Thus threatened, the unhappy scarecrow had nothing for it but to puff

away for dear life. As need was, therefore, it applied itself lustily

to the pipe, and sent forth such abundant volleys of tobacco smoke that

the small cottage kitchen became all vaporous. The one sunbeam

struggled mistily through, and could but imperfectly define the image

of the cracked and dusty window pane on the opposite wall. Mother

Rigby, meanwhile, with one brown arm akimbo and the other stretched

towards the figure, loomed grimly amid the obscurity with such port and

expression as when she was wont to heave a ponderous nightmare on her

victims and stand at the bedside to enjoy their agony. In fear and

trembling did this poor scarecrow puff. But its efforts, it must be

acknowledged, served an excellent purpose; for, with each successive

whiff, the figure lost more and more of its dizzy and perplexing

tenuity and seemed to take denser substance.

Its very garments,

moreover, partook of the magical change, and shone with the gloss of

novelty and glistened with the skilfully embroidered gold that had long

ago been rent away. And, half revealed among the smoke, a yellow visage

bent its lustreless eyes on Mother Rigby.

At last the old witch clinched her fist and shook it at the figure. Not

that she was positively angry, but merely acting on the

principle—perhaps untrue, or not the only truth, though as high a one

as Mother Rigby could be expected to attain—that feeble and torpid

natures, being incapable of better inspiration, must be stirred up by

fear. But here was the crisis. Should she fail in what she now sought

to effect, it was her ruthless purpose to scatter the miserable

simulacre into its original elements.

“Thou hast a man’s aspect,” said she, sternly. “Have also the echo and

mockery of a voice! I bid thee speak!”

The scarecrow gasped, struggled, and at length emitted a murmur, which

was so incorporated with its smoky breath that you could scarcely tell

whether it were indeed a voice or only a whiff of tobacco. Some

narrators of this legend hold the opinion that Mother Rigby’s

conjurations and the fierceness of her will had compelled a familiar

spirit into the figure, and that the voice was his.

“Mother,” mumbled the poor stifled voice, “be not so awful with me! I

would fain speak; but being without wits, what can I say?”

“Thou canst speak, darling, canst thou?” cried Mother Rigby, relaxing

her grim countenance into a smile. “And what shalt thou say, quoth-a!

Say, indeed! Art thou of the brotherhood of the empty skull, and

demandest of me what thou shalt say? Thou shalt say a thousand things,

and saying them a thousand times over, thou shalt still have said

nothing! Be not afraid, I tell thee! When thou comest into the world

(whither I purpose sending thee forthwith) thou shalt not lack the

wherewithal to talk. Talk! Why, thou shall babble like a mill-stream,

if thou wilt. Thou hast brains enough for that, I trow!”

“At your service, mother,” responded the figure.

“And that was well said, my pretty one,” answered Mother Rigby. “Then

thou speakest like thyself, and meant nothing. Thou shalt have a

hundred such set phrases, and five hundred to the boot of them. And

now, darling, I have taken so much pains with thee and thou art so

beautiful, that, by my troth, I love thee better than any witch’s

puppet in the world; and I’ve made them of all sorts—clay, wax, straw,

sticks, night fog, morning mist, sea foam, and chimney smoke. But thou

art the very best. So give heed to what I say.

“Yes, kind mother,” said the figure, “with all my heart!”

“With all thy heart!” cried the old witch, setting her hands to her

sides and laughing loudly. “Thou hast such a pretty way of speaking.

With all thy heart! And thou didst put thy hand to the left side of thy

waistcoat as if thou really hadst one!”

So now, in high good humor with this fantastic contrivance of hers,

Mother Rigby told the scarecrow that it must go and play its part in

the great world, where not one man in a hundred, she affirmed, was

gifted with more real substance than itself. And, that he might hold up

his head with the best of them, she endowed him, on the spot, with an

unreckonable amount of wealth. It consisted partly of a gold mine in

Eldorado, and of ten thousand shares in a broken bubble, and of half a

million acres of vineyard at the North Pole, and of a castle in the

air, and a chateau in Spain, together with all the rents and income

therefrom accruing. She further made over to him the cargo of a certain

ship, laden with salt of Cadiz, which she herself, by her necromantic

arts, had caused to founder, ten years before, in the deepest part of

mid-ocean. If the salt were not dissolved, and could be brought to

market, it would fetch a pretty penny among the fishermen. That he

might not lack ready money, she gave him a copper farthing of

Birmingham manufacture, being all the coin she had about her, and

likewise a great deal of brass, which she applied to his forehead, thus

making it yellower than ever.

“With that brass alone,” quoth Mother Rigby, “thou canst pay thy way

all over the earth. Kiss me, pretty darling! I have done my best for

thee.”

Furthermore, that the adventurer might lack no possible advantage

towards a fair start in life, this excellent old dame gave him a token

by which he was to introduce himself to a certain magistrate, member of

the council, merchant, and elder of the church (the four capacities

constituting but one man), who stood at the head of society in the

neighboring metropolis. The token was neither more nor less than a

single word, which Mother Rigby whispered to the scarecrow, and which

the scarecrow was to whisper to the merchant.

“Gouty as the old fellow is, he’ll run thy errands for thee, when once

thou hast given him that word in his ear,” said the old witch.

“Mother

Rigby knows the worshipful Justice Gookin, and the worshipful Justice

knows Mother Rigby!”

Here the witch thrust her wrinkled face close to the puppet’s,

chuckling irrepressibly, and fidgeting all through her system, with

delight at the idea which she meant to communicate.

“The worshipful Master Gookin,” whispered she, “hath a comely maiden to

his daughter. And hark ye, my pet! Thou hast a fair outside, and a

pretty wit enough of thine own. Yea, a pretty wit enough! Thou wilt

think better of it when thou hast seen more of other people’s wits.

Now, with thy outside and thy inside, thou art the very man to win a

young girl’s heart. Never doubt it! I tell thee it shall be so. Put but

a bold face on the matter, sigh, smile, flourish thy hat, thrust forth

thy leg like a dancing-master, put thy right hand to the left side of

thy waistcoat, and pretty Polly Gookin is thine own!”

All this while the new creature had been sucking in and exhaling the

vapory fragrance of his pipe, and seemed now to continue this

occupation as much for the enjoyment it afforded as because it was an

essential condition of his existence. It was wonderful to see how

exceedingly like a human being it behaved. Its eyes (for it appeared to

possess a pair) were bent on Mother Rigby, and at suitable junctures it

nodded or shook its head. Neither did it lack words proper for the

occasion: “Really! Indeed! Pray tell me! Is it possible! Upon my word!

By no means! Oh! Ah! Hem!” and other such weighty utterances as imply

attention, inquiry, acquiescence, or dissent on the part of the

auditor. Even had you stood by and seen the scarecrow made, you could

scarcely have resisted the conviction that it perfectly understood the

cunning counsels which the old witch poured into its counterfeit of an

ear. The more earnestly it applied its lips to the pipe, the more

distinctly was its human likeness stamped among visible realities, the

more sagacious grew its expression, the more lifelike its gestures and

movements, and the more intelligibly audible its voice. Its garments,

too, glistened so much the brighter with an illusory magnificence. The

very pipe, in which burned the spell of all this wonderwork, ceased to

appear as a smoke-blackened earthen stump, and became a meerschaum,

with painted bowl and amber mouthpiece.

It might be apprehended, however, that as the life of the illusion

seemed identical with the vapor of the pipe, it would terminate

simultaneously with the reduction of the tobacco to ashes. But the

beldam foresaw the difficulty.

“Hold thou the pipe, my precious one,” said she, “while I fill it for

thee again.”

It was sorrowful to behold how the fine gentleman began to fade back

into a scarecrow while Mother Rigby shook the ashes out of the pipe and

proceeded to replenish it from her tobacco-box.

“Dickon,” cried she, in her high, sharp tone, “another coal for this

pipe!”

No sooner said than the intensely red speck of fire was glowing within

the pipe-bowl; and the scarecrow, without waiting for the witch’s

bidding, applied the tube to his lips and drew in a few short,

convulsive whiffs, which soon, however, became regular and equable.

“Now, mine own heart’s darling,” quoth Mother Rigby, “whatever may

happen to thee, thou must stick to thy pipe. Thy life is in it; and

that, at least, thou knowest well, if thou knowest nought besides.

Stick to thy pipe, I say! Smoke, puff, blow thy cloud; and tell the

people, if any question be made, that it is for thy health, and that so

the physician orders thee to do. And, sweet one, when thou shalt find

thy pipe getting low, go apart into some corner, and (first filling

thyself with smoke) cry sharply, ‘Dickon, a fresh pipe of tobacco!’

and, ‘Dickon, another coal for my pipe!’ and have it into thy pretty

mouth as speedily as may be. Else, instead of a gallant gentleman in a

gold-laced coat, thou wilt be but a jumble of sticks and tattered

clothes, and a bag of straw, and a withered pumpkin! Now depart, my

treasure, and good luck go with thee!”

“Never fear, mother!” said the figure, in a stout voice, and sending

forth a courageous whiff of smoke, “I will thrive, if an honest man and

a gentleman may!”

“Oh, thou wilt be the death of me!” cried the old witch, convulsed with

laughter. “That was well said. If an honest man and a gentleman may!

Thou playest thy part to perfection. Get along with thee for a smart

fellow; and I will wager on thy head, as a man of pith and substance,

with a brain and what they call a heart, and all else that a man should

have, against any other thing on two legs. I hold myself a better witch

than yesterday, for thy sake. Did not I make thee? And I defy any witch

in New England to make such another! Here; take my staff along with

thee!”

The staff, though it was but a plain oaken stick, immediately took the

aspect of a gold-headed cane.

“That gold head has as much sense in it as thine own,” said Mother

Rigby, “and it will guide thee straight to worshipful Master Gookin’s

door. Get thee gone, my pretty pet, my darling, my precious one, my

treasure; and if any ask thy name, it is Feathertop.

For thou hast a

feather in thy hat, and I have thrust a handful of feathers into the

hollow of thy head, and thy wig, too, is of the fashion they call

Feathertop,—so be Feathertop thy name!”

And, issuing from the cottage, Feathertop strode manfully towards town.

Mother Rigby stood at the threshold, well pleased to see how the

sunbeams glistened on him, as if all his magnificence were real, and

how diligently and lovingly he smoked his pipe, and how handsomely he

walked, in spite of a little stiffness of his legs. She watched him

until out of sight, and threw a witch benediction after her darling,

when a turn of the road snatched him from her view.

Betimes in the forenoon, when the principal street of the neighboring

town was just at its acme of life and bustle, a stranger of very

distinguished figure was seen on the sidewalk. His port as well as his

garments betokened nothing short of nobility. He wore a

richly-embroidered plum-colored coat, a waistcoat of costly velvet,

magnificently adorned with golden foliage, a pair of splendid scarlet

breeches, and the finest and glossiest of white silk stockings. His

head was covered with a peruke, so daintily powdered and adjusted that

it would have been sacrilege to disorder it with a hat; which,

therefore (and it was a gold-laced hat, set off with a snowy feather),

he carried beneath his arm. On the breast of his coat glistened a star.

He managed his gold-headed cane with an airy grace, peculiar to the

fine gentlemen of the period; and, to give the highest possible finish

to his equipment, he had lace ruffles at his wrist, of a most ethereal

delicacy, sufficiently avouching how idle and aristocratic must be the

hands which they half concealed.

It was a remarkable point in the accoutrement of this brilliant

personage that he held in his left hand a fantastic kind of a pipe,

with an exquisitely painted bowl and an amber mouthpiece. This he

applied to his lips as often as every five or six paces, and inhaled a

deep whiff of smoke, which, after being retained a moment in his lungs,

might be seen to eddy gracefully from his mouth and nostrils.

As may well be supposed, the street was all astir to find out the

stranger’s name.

“It is some great nobleman, beyond question,” said one of the

townspeople. “Do you see the star at his breast?”

“Nay; it is too bright to be seen,” said another. “Yes; he must needs

be a nobleman, as you say.

But by what conveyance, think you, can his

lordship have voyaged or travelled hither? There has been no vessel

from the old country for a month past; and if he have arrived overland

from the southward, pray where are his attendants and equipage?”

“He needs no equipage to set off his rank,” remarked a third. “If he

came among us in rags, nobility would shine through a hole in his

elbow. I never saw such dignity of aspect. He has the old Norman blood

in his veins, I warrant him.”

“I rather take him to be a Dutchman, or one of your high Germans,” said

another citizen. “The men of those countries have always the pipe at

their mouths.”

“And so has a Turk,” answered his companion. “But, in my judgment, this

stranger hath been bred at the French court, and hath there learned

politeness and grace of manner, which none understand so well as the

nobility of France. That gait, now! A vulgar spectator might deem it

stiff—he might call it a hitch and jerk—but, to my eye, it hath an

unspeakable majesty, and must have been acquired by constant

observation of the deportment of the Grand Monarque. The stranger’s

character and office are evident enough. He is a French ambassador,

come to treat with our rulers about the cession of Canada.”

“More probably a Spaniard,” said another, “and hence his yellow

complexion; or, most likely, he is from the Havana, or from some port

on the Spanish main, and comes to make investigation about the piracies

which our government is thought to connive at. Those settlers in Peru

and Mexico have skins as yellow as the gold which they dig out of their

mines.”

“Yellow or not,” cried a lady, “he is a beautiful man!—so tall, so

slender! such a fine, noble face, with so well-shaped a nose, and all

that delicacy of expression about the mouth! And, bless me, how bright

his star is! It positively shoots out flames!”

“So do your eyes, fair lady,” said the stranger, with a bow and a

flourish of his pipe; for he was just passing at the instant. “Upon my

honor, they have quite dazzled me.”

“Was ever so original and exquisite a compliment?” murmured the lady,

in an ecstasy of delight.

Amid the general admiration excited by the stranger’s appearance, there

were only two dissenting voices. One was that of an impertinent cur,

which, after snuffing at the heels of the glistening figure, put its

tail between its legs and skulked into its master’s back yard,

vociferating an execrable howl. The other dissentient was a young

child, who squalled at the fullest stretch of his lungs, and babbled

some unintelligible nonsense about a pumpkin.

Feathertop meanwhile pursued his way along the street. Except for the

few complimentary words to the lady, and now and then a slight

inclination of the head in requital of the profound reverences of the

bystanders, he seemed wholly absorbed in his pipe. There needed no

other proof of his rank and consequence than the perfect equanimity

with which he comported himself, while the curiosity and admiration of

the town swelled almost into clamor around him. With a crowd gathering

behind his footsteps, he finally reached the mansion-house of the

worshipful Justice Gookin, entered the gate, ascended the steps of the

front door, and knocked. In the interim, before his summons was

answered, the stranger was observed to shake the ashes out of his pipe.

“What did he say in that sharp voice?” inquired one of the spectators.

“Nay, I know not,” answered his friend. “But the sun dazzles my eyes

strangely. How dim and faded his lordship looks all of a sudden! Bless

my wits, what is the matter with me?”

“The wonder is,” said the other, “that his pipe, which was out only an

instant ago, should be all alight again, and with the reddest coal I

ever saw. There is something mysterious about this stranger. What a

whiff of smoke was that! Dim and faded did you call him? Why, as he

turns about the star on his breast is all ablaze.”

“It is, indeed,” said his companion; “and it will go near to dazzle

pretty Polly Gookin, whom I see peeping at it out of the chamber

window.”

The door being now opened, Feathertop turned to the crowd, made a

stately bend of his body like a great man acknowledging the reverence

of the meaner sort, and vanished into the house. There was a mysterious

kind of a smile, if it might not better be called a grin or grimace,

upon his visage; but, of all the throng that beheld him, not an

individual appears to have possessed insight enough to detect the

illusive character of the stranger except a little child and a cur dog.

Our legend here loses somewhat of its continuity, and, passing over the

preliminary explanation between Feathertop and the merchant, goes in

quest of the pretty Polly Gookin. She was a damsel of a soft, round

figure, with light hair and blue eyes, and a fair, rosy face, which

seemed neither very shrewd nor very simple. This young lady had caught

a glimpse of the glistening stranger while standing on the threshold,

and had forthwith put on a laced cap, a string of beads, her finest

kerchief, and her stiffest damask petticoat in preparation for the

interview.

Hurrying from her chamber to the parlor, she had ever since

been viewing herself in the large looking-glass and practising pretty

airs-now a smile, now a ceremonious dignity of aspect, and now a softer

smile than the former, kissing her hand likewise, tossing her head, and

managing her fan; while within the mirror an unsubstantial little maid

repeated every gesture and did all the foolish things that Polly did,

but without making her ashamed of them. In short, it was the fault of

pretty Polly’s ability rather than her will if she failed to be as

complete an artifice as the illustrious Feathertop himself; and, when

she thus tampered with her own simplicity, the witch’s phantom might

well hope to win her.

No sooner did Polly hear her father’s gouty footsteps approaching the

parlor door, accompanied with the stiff clatter of Feathertop’s

high-heeled shoes, than she seated herself bolt upright and innocently

began warbling a song.

“Polly! daughter Polly!” cried the old merchant. “Come hither, child.”

Master Gookin’s aspect, as he opened the door, was doubtful and

troubled.

“This gentleman,” continued he, presenting the stranger, “is the

Chevalier Feathertop,—nay, I beg his pardon, my Lord Feathertop,—who

hath brought me a token of remembrance from an ancient friend of mine.

Pay your duty to his lordship, child, and honor him as his quality

deserves.”

After these few words of introduction, the worshipful magistrate

immediately quitted the room. But, even in that brief moment, had the

fair Polly glanced aside at her father instead of devoting herself

wholly to the brilliant guest, she might have taken warning of some

mischief nigh at hand. The old man was nervous, fidgety, and very pale.

Purposing a smile of courtesy, he had deformed his face with a sort of

galvanic grin, which, when Feathertop’s back was turned, he exchanged

for a scowl, at the same time shaking his fist and stamping his gouty

foot—an incivility which brought its retribution along with it. The

truth appears to have been that Mother Rigby’s word of introduction,

whatever it might be, had operated far more on the rich merchant’s

fears than on his good will. Moreover, being a man of wonderfully acute

observation, he had noticed that these painted figures on the bowl of

Feathertop’s pipe were in motion. Looking more closely he became

convinced that these figures were a party of little demons, each duly

provided with horns and a tail, and dancing hand in hand, with gestures

of diabolical merriment, round the circumference of the pipe bowl.

As

if to confirm his suspicions, while Master Gookin ushered his guest

along a dusky passage from his private room to the parlor, the star on

Feathertop’s breast had scintillated actual flames, and threw a

flickering gleam upon the wall, the ceiling, and the floor.

With such sinister prognostics manifesting themselves on all hands, it

is not to be marvelled at that the merchant should have felt that he

was committing his daughter to a very questionable acquaintance. He

cursed, in his secret soul, the insinuating elegance of Feathertop’s

manners, as this brilliant personage bowed, smiled, put his hand on his

heart, inhaled a long whiff from his pipe, and enriched the atmosphere

with the smoky vapor of a fragrant and visible sigh. Gladly would poor

Master Gookin have thrust his dangerous guest into the street; but

there was a constraint and terror within him. This respectable old

gentleman, we fear, at an earlier period of life, had given some pledge

or other to the evil principle, and perhaps was now to redeem it by the

sacrifice of his daughter.

It so happened that the parlor door was partly of glass, shaded by a

silken curtain, the folds of which hung a little awry. So strong was

the merchant’s interest in witnessing what was to ensue between the

fair Polly and the gallant Feathertop that, after quitting the room, he

could by no means refrain from peeping through the crevice of the

curtain.

But there was nothing very miraculous to be seen; nothing—except the

trifles previously noticed—to confirm the idea of a supernatural peril

environing the pretty Polly. The stranger it is true was evidently a

thorough and practised man of the world, systematic and self-possessed,

and therefore the sort of a person to whom a parent ought not to

confide a simple, young girl without due watchfulness for the result.

The worthy magistrate who had been conversant with all degrees and

qualities of mankind, could not but perceive every motion and gesture

of the distinguished Feathertop came in its proper place; nothing had

been left rude or native in him; a well-digested conventionalism had

incorporated itself thoroughly with his substance and transformed him

into a work of art. Perhaps it was this peculiarity that invested him

with a species of ghastliness and awe. It is the effect of anything

completely and consummately artificial, in human shape, that the person

impresses us as an unreality and as having hardly pith enough to cast a

shadow upon the floor.

As regarded Feathertop, all this resulted in a

wild, extravagant, and fantastical impression, as if his life and being

were akin to the smoke that curled upward from his pipe.

But pretty Polly Gookin felt not thus. The pair were now promenading

the room: Feathertop with his dainty stride and no less dainty grimace,

the girl with a native maidenly grace, just touched, not spoiled, by a

slightly affected manner, which seemed caught from the perfect artifice

of her companion. The longer the interview continued, the more charmed

was pretty Polly, until, within the first quarter of an hour (as the

old magistrate noted by his watch), she was evidently beginning to be

in love. Nor need it have been witchcraft that subdued her in such a

hurry; the poor child’s heart, it may be, was so very fervent that it

melted her with its own warmth as reflected from the hollow semblance

of a lover. No matter what Feathertop said, his words found depth and

reverberation in her ear; no matter what he did, his action was heroic

to her eye. And by this time it is to be supposed there was a blush on

Polly’s cheek, a tender smile about her mouth and a liquid softness in

her glance; while the star kept coruscating on Feathertop’s breast, and

the little demons careered with more frantic merriment than ever about

the circumference of his pipe bowl. O pretty Polly Gookin, why should

these imps rejoice so madly that a silly maiden’s heart was about to be

given to a shadow! Is it so unusual a misfortune, so rare a triumph?

By and by Feathertop paused, and throwing himself into an imposing

attitude, seemed to summon the fair girl to survey his figure and

resist him longer if she could. His star, his embroidery, his buckles

glowed at that instant with unutterable splendor; the picturesque hues

of his attire took a richer depth of coloring; there was a gleam and

polish over his whole presence betokening the perfect witchery of

well-ordered manners. The maiden raised her eyes and suffered them to

linger upon her companion with a bashful and admiring gaze. Then, as if

desirous of judging what value her own simple comeliness might have

side by side with so much brilliancy, she cast a glance towards the

full-length looking-glass in front of which they happened to be

standing. It was one of the truest plates in the world and incapable of

flattery. No sooner did the images therein reflected meet Polly’s eye

than she shrieked, shrank from the stranger’s side, gazed at him for a

moment in the wildest dismay, and sank insensible upon the floor.

Feathertop likewise had looked towards the mirror, and there beheld,

not the glittering mockery of his outside show, but a picture of the

sordid patchwork of his real composition stripped of all witchcraft.

The wretched simulacrum! We almost pity him. He threw up his arms with

an expression of despair that went further than any of his previous

manifestations towards vindicating his claims to be reckoned human, for

perchance the only time since this so often empty and deceptive life of

mortals began its course, an illusion had seen and fully recognized

itself.

Mother Rigby was seated by her kitchen hearth in the twilight of this

eventful day, and had just shaken the ashes out of a new pipe, when she

heard a hurried tramp along the road. Yet it did not seem so much the

tramp of human footsteps as the clatter of sticks or the rattling of

dry bones.

“Ha!” thought the old witch, “what step is that? Whose skeleton is out

of its grave now, I wonder?”

A figure burst headlong into the cottage door. It was Feathertop! His

pipe was still alight; the star still flamed upon his breast; the

embroidery still glowed upon his garments; nor had he lost, in any

degree or manner that could be estimated, the aspect that assimilated

him with our mortal brotherhood. But yet, in some indescribable way (as

is the case with all that has deluded us when once found out), the poor

reality was felt beneath the cunning artifice.

“What has gone wrong?” demanded the witch. “Did yonder sniffling

hypocrite thrust my darling from his door? The villain! I’ll set twenty

fiends to torment him till he offer thee his daughter on his bended

knees!”

“No, mother,” said Feathertop despondingly; “it was not that.”

“Did the girl scorn my precious one?” asked Mother Rigby, her fierce

eyes glowing like two coals of Tophet. “I’ll cover her face with

pimples! Her nose shall be as red as the coal in thy pipe! Her front

teeth shall drop out! In a week hence she shall not be worth thy

having!”

“Let her alone, mother,” answered poor Feathertop; “the girl was half

won; and methinks a kiss from her sweet lips might have made me

altogether human. But,” he added, after a brief pause and then a howl

of self-contempt, “I’ve seen myself, mother! I’ve seen myself for the

wretched, ragged, empty thing I am! I’ll exist no longer!”

Snatching the pipe from his mouth, he flung it with all his might

against the chimney, and at the same instant sank upon the floor, a

medley of straw and tattered garments, with some sticks protruding from

the heap, and a shrivelled pumpkin in the midst.

The eyeholes were now

lustreless; but the rudely-carved gap, that just before had been a

mouth still seemed to twist itself into a despairing grin, and was so

far human.

“Poor fellow!” quoth Mother Rigby, with a rueful glance at the relics

of her ill-fated contrivance. “My poor, dear, pretty Feathertop! There

are thousands upon thousands of coxcombs and charlatans in the world,

made up of just such a jumble of wornout, forgotten, and

good-for-nothing trash as he was! Yet they live in fair repute, and

never see themselves for what they are. And why should my poor puppet

be the only one to know himself and perish for it?”

While thus muttering, the witch had filled a fresh pipe of tobacco, and

held the stem between her fingers, as doubtful whether to thrust it

into her own mouth or Feathertop’s.

“Poor Feathertop!” she continued. “I could easily give him another

chance and send him forth again tomorrow. But no; his feelings are too

tender, his sensibilities too deep. He seems to have too much heart to

bustle for his own advantage in such an empty and heartless world.

Well! well! I’ll make a scarecrow of him after all. ’Tis an innocent

and useful vocation, and will suit my darling well; and, if each of his

human brethren had as fit a one, ’twould be the better for mankind; and

as for this pipe of tobacco, I need it more than he.”

So saying Mother Rigby put the stem between her lips. “Dickon!” cried

she, in her high, sharp tone, “another coal for my pipe!”

Chapter 14.

THE NEW ADAM AND EVE.

We who are born into the world’s artificial system can never adequately

know how little in our present state and circumstances is natural, and

how much is merely the interpolation of the perverted mind and heart of

man. Art has become a second and stronger nature; she is a step-mother,

whose crafty tenderness has taught us to despise the bountiful and

wholesome ministrations of our true parent. It is only through the

medium of the imagination that we can lessen those iron fetters, which

we call truth and reality, and make ourselves even partially sensible

what prisoners we are. For instance, let us conceive good Father

Miller’s interpretation of the prophecies to have proved true. The Day

of Doom has burst upon the globe and swept away the whole race of men.

From cities and fields, sea-shore and midland mountain region, vast

continents, and even the remotest islands of the ocean, each living

thing is gone. No breath of a created being disturbs this earthly

atmosphere.

But the abodes of man, and all that he has accomplished,

the footprints of his wanderings and the results of his toil, the

visible symbols of his intellectual cultivation and moral progress,—in

short, everything physical that can give evidence of his present

position,—shall remain untouched by the hand of destiny. Then, to

inherit and repeople this waste and deserted earth, we will suppose a

new Adam and a new Eve to have been created, in the full development of

mind and heart, but with no knowledge of their predecessors nor of the

diseased circumstances that had become incrusted around them. Such a

pair would at once distinguish between art and nature. Their instincts

and intuitions would immediately recognize the wisdom and simplicity of

the latter; while the former, with its elaborate perversities, would

offer them a continual succession of puzzles.

Let us attempt, in a mood half sportive and half thoughtful, to track

these imaginary heirs of our mortality, through their first day’s

experience. No longer ago than yesterday the flame of human life was

extinguished; there has been a breathless night; and now another morn

approaches, expecting to find the earth no less desolate than at

eventide.

It is dawn. The east puts on its immemorial blush, although no human

eye is gazing at it; for all the phenomena of the natural world renew

themselves, in spite of the solitude that now broods around the globe.

There is still beauty of earth, sea, and sky, for beauty’s sake. But

soon there are to be spectators. Just when the earliest sunshine gilds

earth’s mountain-tops, two beings have come into life, not in such an

Eden as bloomed to welcome our first parents, but in the heart of a

modern city. They find themselves in existence, and gazing into one

another’s eyes. Their emotion is not astonishment; nor do they perplex

themselves with efforts to discover what, and whence, and why they are.

Each is satisfied to be, because the other exists likewise; and their

first consciousness is of calm and mutual enjoyment, which seems not to

have been the birth of that very moment, but prolonged from a past

eternity. Thus content with an inner sphere which they inhabit

together, it is not immediately that the outward world can obtrude

itself upon their notice.

Soon, however, they feel the invincible necessity of this earthly life,

and begin to make acquaintance with the objects and circumstances that

surround them.

Perhaps no other stride so vast remains to be taken as

when they first turn from the reality of their mutual glance to the

dreams and shadows that perplex them everywhere else.

“Sweetest Eve, where are we?” exclaims the new Adam; for speech, or

some equivalent mode of expression, is born with them, and comes just

as natural as breath. “Methinks I do not recognize this place.”

“Nor I, dear Man,” replies the new Eve. “And what a strange place, too!

Let me come closer to thy side and behold thee only; for all other

sights trouble and perplex my spirit.”

“Nay, Eve,” replies Adam, who appears to have the stronger tendency

towards the material world; “it were well that we gain some insight

into these matters. We are in an odd situation here. Let us look about

us.”

Assuredly there are sights enough to throw the new inheritors of earth

into a state of hopeless perplexity. The long lines of edifices, their

windows glittering in the yellow sunrise, and the narrow street

between, with its barren pavement tracked and battered by wheels that

have now rattled into an irrevocable past! The signs, with their

unintelligible hieroglyphics! The squareness and ugliness, and regular

or irregular deformity of everything that meets the eye! The marks of

wear and tear, and unrenewed decay, which distinguish the works of man

from the growth of nature! What is there in all this, capable of the

slightest significance to minds that know nothing of the artificial

system which is implied in every lamp-post and each brick of the

houses? Moreover, the utter loneliness and silence, in a scene that

originally grew out of noise and bustle, must needs impress a feeling

of desolation even upon Adam and Eve, unsuspicious as they are of the

recent extinction of human existence. In a forest, solitude would be

life; in a city, it is death.

The new Eve looks round with a sensation of doubt and distrust, such as

a city dame, the daughter of numberless generations of citizens, might

experience if suddenly transported to the garden of Eden. At length her

downcast eye discovers a small tuft of grass, just beginning to sprout

among the stones of the pavement; she eagerly grasps it, and is

sensible that this little herb awakens some response within her heart.

Nature finds nothing else to offer her. Adam, after staring up and down

the street without detecting a single object that his comprehension can

lay hold of, finally turns his forehead to the sky. There, indeed, is

something which the soul within him recognizes.

“Look up yonder, mine own Eve,” he cries; “surely we ought to dwell

among those gold-tinged clouds or in the blue depths beyond them. I

know not how nor when, but evidently we have strayed away from our

home; for I see nothing hereabouts that seems to belong to us.”

“Can we not ascend thither?” inquires Eve.

“Why not?” answers Adam, hopefully. “But no; something drags us down in

spite of our best efforts. Perchance we may find a path hereafter.”

In the energy of new life it appears no such impracticable feat to

climb into the sky. But they have already received a woful lesson,

which may finally go far towards reducing them to the level of the

departed race, when they acknowledge the necessity of keeping the

beaten track of earth. They now set forth on a ramble through the city,

in the hope of making their escape from this uncongenial sphere.

Already in the fresh elasticity of their spirits they have found the

idea of weariness. We will watch them as they enter some of the shops

and public or private edifices; for every door, whether of alderman or

beggar, church or hall of state, has been flung wide open by the same

agency that swept away the inmates.

It so happens,—and not unluckily for an Adam and Eve who are still in

the costume that might better have befitted Eden,—it so happens that

their first visit is to a fashionable dry-goods store. No courteous and

importunate attendants hasten to receive their orders; no throng of

ladies are tossing over the rich Parisian fabrics. All is deserted;

trade is at a stand-still; and not even an echo of the national

watchword, “Go ahead!” disturbs the quiet of the new customers. But

specimens of the latest earthly fashions, silks of every shade, and

whatever is most delicate or splendid for the decoration of the human

form, he scattered around, profusely as bright autumnal leaves in a

forest. Adam looks at a few of the articles, but throws them carelessly

aside with whatever exclamation may correspond to “Pish!” or “Pshaw!”

in the new vocabulary of nature. Eve, however,—be it said without

offence to her native modesty,—examines these treasures of her sex with

somewhat livelier interest. A pair of corsets chance to be upon the

counter; she inspects them curiously, but knows not what to make of

them. Then she handles a fashionable silk with dim yearnings, thoughts

that wander hither and thither, instincts groping in the dark.

“On the whole, I do not like it,” she observes, laying the glossy

fabric upon the counter. “But, Adam, it is very strange.

What can these

things mean? Surely I ought to know; yet they put me in a perfect

maze.”

“Poh! my dear Eve, why trouble thy little head about such nonsense?”

cries Adam, in a fit of impatience. “Let us go somewhere else. But

stay; how very beautiful! My loveliest Eve, what a charm you have

imparted to that robe by merely throwing it over your shoulders!”

For Eve, with the taste that nature moulded into her composition, has

taken a remnant of exquisite silver gauze and drawn it around her

forms, with an effect that gives Adam his first idea of the witchery of

dress. He beholds his spouse in a new light and with renewed

admiration; yet is hardly reconciled to any other attire than her own

golden locks. However, emulating Eve’s example, he makes free with a

mantle of blue velvet, and puts it on so picturesquely that it might

seem to have fallen from heaven upon his stately figure. Thus garbed

they go in search of new discoveries.

They next wander into a Church, not to make a display of their fine

clothes, but attracted by its spire pointing upwards to the sky,

whither they have already yearned to climb. As they enter the portal, a

clock, which it was the last earthly act of the sexton to wind up,

repeats the hour in deep reverberating tones; for Time has survived his

former progeny, and, with the iron tongue that man gave him, is now

speaking to his two grandchildren. They listen, but understand him not.

Nature would measure time by the succession of thoughts and acts which

constitute real life, and not by hours of emptiness. They pass up the

church-aisle, and raise their eyes to the ceiling. Had our Adam and Eve

become mortal in some European city, and strayed into the vastness and

sublimity of an old cathedral, they might have recognized the purpose

for which the deep-souled founders reared it. Like the dim awfulness of

an ancient forest, its very atmosphere would have incited them to

prayer. Within the snug walls of a metropolitan church there can be no

such influence.

Yet some odor of religion is still lingering here, the bequest of pious

souls, who had grace to enjoy a foretaste of immortal life. Perchance

they breathe a prophecy of a better world to their successors, who have

become obnoxious to all their own cares and calamities in the present

one.

“Eve, something impels me to look upward,” says Adam; “but it troubles

me to see this roof between us and the sky. Let us go forth, and

perhaps we shall discern a Great Face looking down upon us.”

“Yes; a Great Face, with a beam of love brightening over it, like

sunshine,” responds Eve.

“Surely we have seen such a countenance

somewhere.”

They go out of the church, and kneeling at its threshold give way to

the spirit’s natural instinct of adoration towards a beneficent Father.

But, in truth, their life thus far has been a continual prayer. Purity

and simplicity hold converse at every moment with their Creator.

We now observe them entering a Court of Justice. But what remotest

conception can they attain of the purposes of such an edifice? How

should the idea occur to them that human brethren, of like nature with

themselves, and originally included in the same law of love which is

their only rule of life, should ever need an outward enforcement of the

true voice within their souls? And what, save a woful experience, the

dark result of many centuries, could teach them the sad mysteries of

crime? O Judgment Seat, not by the pure in heart vast thou established,

nor in the simplicity of nature; but by hard and wrinkled men, and upon

the accumulated heap of earthly wrong. Thou art the very symbol of

man’s perverted state.

On as fruitless an errand our wanderers next visit a Hall of

Legislature, where Adam places Eve in the Speaker’s chair, unconscious

of the moral which he thus exemplifies. Man’s intellect, moderated by

Woman’s tenderness and moral sense! Were such the legislation of the

world there would be no need of State Houses, Capitols, Halls of

Parliament, nor even of those little assemblages of patriarchs beneath

the shadowy trees, by whom freedom was first interpreted to mankind on

our native shores.

Whither go they next? A perverse destiny seems to perplex them with one

after another of the riddles which mankind put forth to the wandering

universe, and left unsolved in their own destruction. They enter an

edifice of stern gray stone standing insulated in the midst of others,

and gloomy even in the sunshine, which it barely suffers to penetrate

through its iron grated windows. It is a prison. The jailer has left

his post at the summons of a stronger authority than the sheriff’s. But

the prisoners? Did the messenger of fate, when he shook open all the

doors, respect the magistrate’s warrant and the judge’s sentence, and

leave the inmates of the dungeons to be delivered by due course of

earthly law? No; a new trial has been granted in a higher court, which

may set judge, jury, and prisoner at its bar all in a row, and perhaps

find one no less guilty than another. The jail, like the whole earth,

is now a solitude, and has thereby lost something of its dismal gloom.

But here are the narrow cells, like tombs, only drearier and deadlier,

because in these the immortal spirit was buried with the body.

Inscriptions appear on the walls, scribbled with a pencil or scratched

with a rusty nail; brief words of agony, perhaps, or guilt’s desperate

defiance to the world, or merely a record of a date by which the writer

strove to keep up with the march of life. There is not a living eye

that could now decipher these memorials.

Nor is it while so fresh from their Creator’s hand that the new

denizens of earth—no, nor their descendants for a thousand years—could

discover that this edifice was a hospital for the direst disease which

could afflict their predecessors. Its patients bore the outward marks

of that leprosy with which all were more or less infected. They were

sick-and so were the purest of their brethren—with the plague of sin. A

deadly sickness, indeed! Feeling its symptoms within the breast, men

concealed it with fear and shame, and were only the more cruel to those

unfortunates whose pestiferous sores were flagrant to the common eye.

Nothing save a rich garment could ever hide the plague-spot. In the

course of the world’s lifetime, every remedy was tried for its cure and

extirpation, except the single one, the flower that grew in Heaven and

was sovereign for all the miseries of earth. Man never had attempted to

cure sin by LOVE! Had he but once made the effort, it might well have

happened that there would have been no more need of the dark

lazar-house into which Adam and Eve have wandered. Hasten forth with

your native innocence, lest the damps of these still conscious walls

infect you likewise, and thus another fallen race be propagated!

Passing from the interior of the prison into the space within its

outward wall, Adam pauses beneath a structure of the simplest

contrivance, yet altogether unaccountable to him. It consists merely of

two upright posts, supporting a transverse beam, from which dangles a

cord.

“Eve, Eve!” cries Adam, shuddering with a nameless horror. “What can

this thing be?”

“I know not,” answers Eve; “but, Adam, my heart is sick! There seems to

be no more sky,—no more sunshine!”

Well might Adam shudder and poor Eve be sick at heart; for this

mysterious object was the type of mankind’s whole system in regard to

the great difficulties which God had given to be solved,—a system of

fear and vengeance, never successful, yet followed to the last. Here,

on the morning when the final summons came, a criminal—one criminal,

where none were guiltless—had died upon the gallows.

Had the world

heard the footfall of its own approaching doom, it would have been no

inappropriate act thus to close the record of its deeds by one so

characteristic.

The two pilgrims now hurry from the prison. Had they known how the

former inhabitants of earth were shut up in artificial error and

cramped and chained by their perversions, they might have compared the

whole moral world to a prison-house, and have deemed the removal of the

race a general jail-delivery.

They next enter, unannounced, but they might have rung at the door in

vain, a private mansion, one of the stateliest in Beacon Street. A wild

and plaintive strain of music is quivering through the house, now

rising like a solemn organ-peal, and now dying into the faintest

murmur, as if some spirit that had felt an interest in the departed

family were bemoaning itself in the solitude of hall and chamber.

Perhaps a virgin, the purest of mortal race, has been left behind to

perform a requiem for the whole kindred of humanity. Not so. These are

the tones of an Eolian harp, through which Nature pours the harmony

that lies concealed in her every breath, whether of summer breeze or

tempest. Adam and Eve are lost in rapture, unmingled with surprise. The

passing wind, that stirred the harp-strings, has been hushed, before

they can think of examining the splendid furniture, the gorgeous

carpets, and the architecture of the rooms. These things amuse their

unpractised eyes, but appeal to nothing within their hearts. Even the

pictures upon the walls scarcely excite a deeper interest; for there is

something radically artificial and deceptive in painting with which

minds in the primal simplicity cannot sympathize. The unbidden guests

examine a row of family portraits, but are too dull to recognize them

as men and women, beneath the disguise of a preposterous garb, and with

features and expression debased, because inherited through ages of

moral and physical decay.

Chance, however, presents them with pictures of human beauty, fresh

from the hand of Nature. As they enter a magnificent apartment they are

astonished, but not affrighted, to perceive two figures advancing to

meet them. Is it not awful to imagine that any life, save their own,

should remain in the wide world?

“How is this?” exclaims Adam. “My beautiful Eve, are you in two places

at once?”

“And you, Adam!” answers Eve, doubtful, yet delighted. “Surely that

noble and lovely form is yours. Yet here you are by my side. I am

content with one,—methinks there should not be two.

”

This miracle is wrought by a tall looking-glass, the mystery of which

they soon fathom, because Nature creates a mirror for the human face in

every pool of water, and for her own great features in waveless lakes.

Pleased and satisfied with gazing at themselves, they now discover the

marble statue of a child in a corner of the room so exquisitely

idealized that it is almost worthy to be the prophetic likeness of

their first-born. Sculpture, in its highest excellence, is more genuine

than painting, and might seem to be evolved from a natural germ, by the

same law as a leaf or flower. The statue of the child impresses the

solitary pair as if it were a companion; it likewise hints at secrets

both of the past and future.

“My husband!” whispers Eve.

“What would you say, dearest Eve?” inquires Adam.

“I wonder if we are alone in the world,” she continues, “with a sense

of something like fear at the thought of other inhabitants. This lovely

little form! Did it ever breathe? Or is it only the shadow of something

real, like our pictures in the mirror?”

“It is strange!” replies Adam, pressing his hand to his brow. “There

are mysteries all around us. An idea flits continually before me,—would

that I could seize it! Eve, Eve, are we treading in the footsteps of

beings that bore a likeness to ourselves? If so, whither are they

gone?—and why is their world so unfit for our dwelling-place?”

“Our great Father only knows,” answers Eve. “But something tells me

that we shall not always be alone. And how sweet if other beings were

to visit us in the shape of this fair image!”

Then they wander through the house, and everywhere find tokens of human

life, which now, with the idea recently suggested, excite a deeper

curiosity in their bosoms. Woman has here left traces of her delicacy

and refinement, and of her gentle labors. Eve ransacks a work-basket

and instinctively thrusts the rosy tip of her finger into a thimble.

She takes up a piece of embroidery, glowing with mimic flowers, in one

of which a fair damsel of the departed race has left her needle. Pity

that the Day of Doom should have anticipated the completion of such a

useful task! Eve feels almost conscious of the skill to finish it. A

pianoforte has been left open. She flings her hand carelessly over the

keys, and strikes out a sudden melody, no less natural than the strains

of the AEolian harp, but joyous with the dance of her yet unburdened

life.

Passing through a dark entry they find a broom behind the door;

and Eve, who comprises the whole nature of womanhood, has a dim idea

that it is an instrument proper for her hand. In another apartment they

behold a canopied bed, and all the appliances of luxurious repose. A

heap of forest-leaves would be more to the purpose. They enter the

nursery, and are perplexed with the sight of little gowns and caps,

tiny slices, and a cradle, amid the drapery of which is still to be

seen the impress of a baby’s form. Adam slightly notices these trifles;

but Eve becomes involved in a fit of mute reflection from which it is

hardly possible to rouse her.

By a most unlucky arrangement there was to have been a grand

dinner-party in this mansion on the very day when the whole human

family, including the invited guests, were summoned to the unknown

regions of illimitable space. At the moment of fate, the table was

actually spread, and the company on the point of sitting down. Adam and

Eve come unbidden to the banquet; it has now been some time cold, but

otherwise furnishes them with highly favorable specimens of the

gastronomy of their predecessors. But it is difficult to imagine the

perplexity of the unperverted couple, in endeavoring to find proper

food for their first meal, at a table where the cultivated appetites of

a fashionable party were to have been gratified. Will Nature teach them

the mystery of a plate of turtle-soup? Will she embolden them to attack

a haunch of venison? Will she initiate them into the merits of a

Parisian pasty, imported by the last steamer that ever crossed the

Atlantic? Will she not, rather, bid them turn with disgust from fish,

fowl, and flesh, which, to their pure nostrils, steam with a loathsome

odor of death and corruption?—Food? The bill of fare contains nothing

which they recognize as such.

Fortunately, however, the dessert is ready upon a neighboring table.

Adam, whose appetite and animal instincts are quicker than those of

Eve, discovers this fitting banquet.

“Here, dearest Eve,” he exclaims,—“here is food.”

“Well,” answered she, with the germ of a housewife stirring within her,

“we have been so busy to-day, that a picked-up dinner must serve.”

So Eve comes to the table and receives a red-cheeked apple from her

husband’s hand in requital of her predecessor’s fatal gift to our

common grandfather. She eats it without sin, and, let us hope, with no

disastrous consequences to her future progeny.

They make a plentiful,

yet temperate, meal of fruit, which, though not gathered in paradise,

is legitimately derived from the seeds that were planted there. Their

primal appetite is satisfied.

“What shall we drink, Eve?” inquires Adam.

Eve peeps among some bottles and decanters, which, as they contain

fluids, she naturally conceives must be proper to quench thirst. But

never before did claret, hock, and madeira, of rich and rare perfume,

excite such disgust as now.

“Pah!” she exclaims, after smelling at various wines. “What stuff is

here? The beings who have gone before us could not have possessed the

same nature that we do; for neither their hunger nor thirst were like

our own.”

“Pray hand me yonder bottle,” says Adam. “If it be drinkable by any

manner of mortal, I must moisten my throat with it.”

After some remonstrances, she takes up a champagne bottle, but is

frightened by the sudden explosion of the cork, and drops it upon the

floor. There the untasted liquor effervesces. Had they quaffed it they

would have experienced that brief delirium whereby, whether excited by

moral or physical causes, man sought to recompense himself for the

calm, life-long joys which he had lost by his revolt from nature. At

length, in a refrigerator, Eve finds a glass pitcher of water, pure,

cold, and bright as ever gushed from a fountain among the hills. Both

drink; and such refreshment does it bestow, that they question one

another if this precious liquid be not identical with the stream of

life within them.

“And now,” observes Adam, “we must again try to discover what sort of a

world this is, and why we have been sent hither.”

“Why? to love one another,” cries Eve. “Is not that employment enough?”

“Truly is it,” answers Adam, kissing her; “but still—I know

not—something tells us there is labor to be done. Perhaps our allotted

task is no other than to climb into the sky, which is so much more

beautiful than earth.”

“Then would we were there now,” murmurs Eve, “that no task or duty

might come between us!”

They leave the hospitable mansion, and we next see them passing down

State Street. The clock on the old State House points to high noon,

when the Exchange should be in its glory and present the liveliest

emblem of what was the sole business of life, as regarded a multitude

of the foregone worldlings. It is over now. The Sabbath of eternity has

shed its stillness along the street. Not even a newsboy assails the two

solitary passers-by with an extra penny-paper from the office of the

Times or Mail, containing a full account of yesterday’s terrible

catastrophe.

Of all the dull times that merchants and speculators have

known, this is the very worst; for, so far as they were concerned,

creation itself has taken the benefit of the Bankrupt Act. After all,

it is a pity. Those mighty capitalists who had just attained the

wished-for wealth! Those shrewd men of traffic who had devoted so many

years to the most intricate and artificial of sciences, and had barely

mastered it when the universal bankruptcy was announced by peal of

trumpet! Can they have been so incautious as to provide no currency of

the country whither they have gone, nor any bills of exchange, or

letters of credit from the needy on earth to the cash-keepers of

heaven?

Adam and Eve enter a Bank. Start not, ye whose funds are treasured

there! You will never need them now. Call not for the police. The

stones of the street and the coin of the vaults are of equal value to

this simple pair. Strange sight! They take up the bright gold in

handfuls and throw it sportively into the air for the sake of seeing

the glittering worthlessness descend again in a shower. They know not

that each of those small yellow circles was once a magic spell, potent

to sway men’s hearts and mystify their moral sense. Here let them pause

in the investigation of the past. They have discovered the mainspring,

the life, the very essence of the system that had wrought itself into

the vitals of mankind, and choked their original nature in its deadly

gripe. Yet how powerless over these young inheritors of earth’s hoarded

wealth! And here, too, are huge, packages of back-notes, those

talismanic slips of paper which once had the efficacy to build up

enchanted palaces like exhalations, and work all kinds of perilous

wonders, yet were themselves but the ghosts of money, the shadows of a

shade. How like is this vault to a magician’s cave when the

all-powerful wand is broken, and the visionary splendor vanished, and

the floor strewn with fragments of shattered spells, and lifeless

shapes, once animated by demons!

“Everywhere, my dear Eve,” observes Adam, “we find heaps of rubbish of

one kind or another. Somebody, I am convinced, has taken pains to

collect them, but for what purpose? Perhaps, hereafter, we shall be

moved to do the like. Can that be our business in the world?”

“O no, no, Adam!” answers Eve. “It would be better to sit down quietly

and look upward to tine sky.”

They leave the Bank, and in good time; for had they tarried later they

would probably have encountered some gouty old goblin of a capitalist,

whose soul could not long be anywhere save in the vault with his

treasure.

Next they drop into a jeweller’s shop. They are pleased with the glow

of gems; and Adam twines a string of beautiful pearls around the head

of Eve, and fastens his own mantle with a magnificent diamond brooch.

Eve thanks him, and views herself with delight, in the nearest

looking-glass. Shortly afterward, observing a bouquet of roses and

other brilliant flowers in a vase of water, she flings away the

inestimable pearls, and adorns herself with these lovelier gems of

nature. They charm her with sentiment as well as beauty.

“Surely they are living beings,” she remarks to Adam.

“I think so,” replies Adam, “and they seem to be as little at home in

the world as ourselves.”

We must not attempt to follow every footstep of these investigators

whom their Creator has commissioned to pass unconscious judgment upon

the works and ways of the vanished race. By this time, being endowed

with quick and accurate perceptions, they begin to understand the

purpose of the many things around them. They conjecture, for instance,

that the edifices of the city were erected, not by the immediate hand

that made the world, but by beings somewhat similar to themselves, for

shelter and convenience. But how will they explain the magnificence of

one habitation as compared with the squalid misery of another? Through

what medium can the idea of servitude enter their minds? When will they

comprehend the great and miserable fact—the evidences of which appeal

to their senses everywhere—that one portion of earth’s lost inhabitants

was rolling in luxury while the multitude was toiling for scanty food?

A wretched change, indeed, must be wrought in their own hearts ere they

can conceive the primal decree of Love to have been so completely

abrogated, that a brother should ever want what his brother had. When

their intelligence shah have reached so far, Earth’s new progeny will

have little reason to exult over her old rejected one.

Their wanderings have now brought them into the suburbs of the city,

They stand on a grassy brow of a hill at the foot of a granite obelisk

which points its great finger upwards, as if the human family had

agreed, by a visible symbol of age-long endurance, to offer some high

sacrifice of thanksgiving or supplication. The solemn height of the

monument, its deep simplicity, and the absence of any vulgar and

practical use, all strengthen its effect upon Adam and Eve, and leave

them to interpret it by a purer sentiment than the builders thought of

expressing.

“Eve, it is a visible prayer,” observed Adam.

“And we will pray too,” she replies.

Let us pardon these poor children of neither father nor mother for so

absurdly mistaking the purport of the memorial which man founded and

woman finished on far-famed Bunker Hill. The idea of war is not native

to their souls. Nor have they sympathies for the brave defenders of

liberty, since oppression is one of their unconjectured mysteries.

Could they guess that the green sward on which they stand so peacefully

was once strewn with human corpses and purple with their blood, it

would equally amaze them that one generation of men should perpetrate

such carnage, and that a subsequent generation should triumphantly

commemorate it.

With a sense of delight they now stroll across green fields and along

the margin of a quiet river. Not to track them too closely, we next

find the wanderers entering a Gothic edifice of gray stone, where the

bygone world has left whatever it deemed worthy of record, in the rich

library of Harvard University.

No student ever yet enjoyed such solitude and silence as now broods

within its deep alcoves. Little do the present visitors understand what

opportunities are thrown away upon them. Yet Adam looks anxiously at

the long rows of volumes, those storied heights of human lore,

ascending one above another from floor to ceiling. He takes up a bulky

folio. It opens in his hands as if spontaneously to impart the spirit

of its author to the yet unworn and untainted intellect of the

fresh-created mortal. He stands poring over the regular columns of

mystic characters, seemingly in studious mood; for the unintelligible

thought upon the page has a mysterious relation to his mind, and makes

itself felt as if it were a burden flung upon him. He is even painfully

perplexed, and grasps vainly at he knows not what. O Adam, it is too

soon, too soon by at least five thousand years, to put on spectacles

and bury yourself in the alcoves of a library!

“What can this be?” he murmurs at last. “Eve, methinks nothing is so

desirable as to find out the mystery of this big and heavy object with

its thousand thin divisions. See! it stares me in the face as if it

were about to speak!”

Eve, by a feminine instinct, is dipping into a volume of fashionable

poetry, the production certainly the most fortunate of earthly bards,

since his lay continues in vogue when all the great masters of the lyre

have passed into oblivion. But let not, his ghost be too exultant! The

world’s one lady tosses the book upon the floor and laughs merrily at

her husband’s abstracted mien.

“My dear Adam,” cries she, “you look pensive and dismal.

Do fling down

that stupid thing; for even if it should speak it would not be worth

attending to. Let us talk with one another, and with the sky, and the

green earth, and its trees and flowers. They will teach us better

knowledge than we can find here.”

“Well, Eve, perhaps you are right,” replies Adam, with a sort of sigh.

“Still I cannot help thinking that the interpretation of the riddles

amid which we have been wandering all day long might here be

discovered.”

“It may be better not to seek the interpretation,” persists Eve. “For

my part, the air of this place does not suit me. If you love me, come

away!”

She prevails, and rescues him from the mysterious perils of the

library. Happy influence of woman! Had he lingered there long enough to

obtain a clew to its treasures,—as was not impossible, his intellect

being of human structure, indeed, but with an untransmitted vigor and

acuteness,—had he then and there become a student, the annalist of our

poor world would soon have recorded the downfall of a second Adam. The

fatal apple of another Tree of knowledge would have been eaten. All the

perversions, and sophistries, and false wisdom so aptly mimicking the

true,—all the narrow truth, so partial that it becomes more deceptive

than falsehood,—all the wrong principles and worse practice, the

pernicious examples and mistaken rules of life,—all the specious

theories which turn earth into cloudland and men into shadows,—all the

sad experience which it took mankind so many ages to accumulate, and

from which they never drew a moral for their future guidance, the whole

heap of this disastrous lore would have tumbled at once upon Adam’s

head. There would have been nothing left for him but to take up the

already abortive experiment of life where he had dropped it, and toil

onward with it a little farther.

But, blessed in his ignorance, he may still enjoy a new world in our

worn-out one. Should he fall short of good, even as far as we did, he

has at least the freedom—no worthless one—to make errors for himself.

And his literature, when the progress of centuries shall create it,

will be no interminably repeated echo of our own poetry and

reproduction of the images that were moulded by our great fathers of

song and fiction, but a melody never yet heard on earth, and

intellectual forms unbreathed upon by our conceptions. Therefore let

the dust of ages gather upon the volumes of the library, and in due

season the roof of the edifice crumble down upon the whole.

When the

second Adam’s descendants shall have collected as much rubbish of their

own, it will be time enough to dig into our ruins and compare the

literary advancement of two independent races.

But we are looking forward too far. It seems to be the vice of those

who have a long past behind them. We will return to the new Adam and

Eve, who, having no reminiscences save dim and fleeting visions of a

pre-existence, are content to live and be happy in the present.

The day is near its close when these pilgrims, who derive their being

from no dead progenitors, reach the cemetery of Mount Auburn. With

light hearts—for earth and sky now gladden each other with beauty—they

tread along the winding paths, among marble pillars, mimic temples,

urns, obelisks, and sarcophagi, sometimes pausing to contemplate these

fantasies of human growth, and sometimes to admire the flowers

wherewith nature converts decay to loveliness. Can Death, in the midst

of his old triumphs, make them sensible that they have taken up the

heavy burden of mortality which a whole species had thrown down? Dust

kindred to their own has never lain in the grave. Will they then

recognize, and so soon, that Time and the elements have an indefeasible

claim upon their bodies? Not improbably they may. There must have been

shadows enough, even amid the primal sunshine of their existence, to

suggest the thought of the soul’s incongruity with its circumstances.

They have already learned that something is to be thrown aside. The

idea of Death is in them, or not far off. But, were they to choose a

symbol for him, it would be the butterfly soaring upward, or the bright

angel beckoning them aloft, or the child asleep, with soft dreams

visible through her transparent purity.

Such a Child, in whitest marble, they have found among the monuments of

Mount Auburn.

“Sweetest Eve,” observes Adam, while hand in hand they contemplate this

beautiful object, “yonder sun has left us, and the whole world is

fading from our sight. Let us sleep as this lovely little figure is

sleeping. Our Father only knows whether what outward things we have

possessed to-day are to be snatched from us forever. But should our

earthly life be leaving us with the departing light, we need not doubt

that another morn will find us somewhere beneath the smile of God. I

feel that he has imparted the boon of existence never to be resumed.”

“And no matter where we exist,” replies Eve, “for we shall always be

together.”

Chapter 15.

EGOTISM; OR, THE BOSOM SERPENT.

“Here he comes!” shouted the boys along the street.

“Here comes the man

with a snake in his bosom!”

This outcry, saluting Herkimer’s ears as he was about to enter the iron

gate of the Elliston mansion, made him pause. It was not without a

shudder that he found himself on the point of meeting his former

acquaintance, whom he had known in the glory of youth, and whom now

after an interval of five years, he was to find the victim either of a

diseased fancy or a horrible physical misfortune.

“A snake in his bosom!” repeated the young sculptor to himself. “It

must be he. No second man on earth has such a bosom friend. And now, my

poor Rosina, Heaven grant me wisdom to discharge my errand aright!

Woman’s faith must be strong indeed since thine has not yet failed.”

Thus musing, he took his stand at the entrance of the gate and waited

until the personage so singularly announced should make his appearance.

After an instant or two he beheld the figure of a lean man, of

unwholesome look, with glittering eyes and long black hair, who seemed

to imitate the motion of a snake; for, instead of walking straight

forward with open front, he undulated along the pavement in a curved

line. It may be too fanciful to say that something, either in his moral

or material aspect, suggested the idea that a miracle had been wrought

by transforming a serpent into a man, but so imperfectly that the snaky

nature was yet hidden, and scarcely hidden, under the mere outward

guise of humanity. Herkimer remarked that his complexion had a greenish

tinge over its sickly white, reminding him of a species of marble out

of which he had once wrought a head of Envy, with her snaky locks.

The wretched being approached the gate, but, instead of entering,

stopped short and fixed the glitter of his eye full upon the

compassionate yet steady countenance of the sculptor.

“It gnaws me! It gnaws me!” he exclaimed.

And then there was an audible hiss, but whether it came from the

apparent lunatic’s own lips, or was the real hiss of a serpent, might

admit of a discussion. At all events, it made Herkimer shudder to his

heart’s core.

“Do you know me, George Herkimer?” asked the snake-possessed.

Herkimer did know him; but it demanded all the intimate and practical

acquaintance with the human face, acquired by modelling actual

likenesses in clay, to recognize the features of Roderick Elliston in

the visage that now met the sculptor’s gaze. Yet it was he. It added

nothing to the wonder to reflect that the once brilliant young man had

undergone this odious and fearful change during the no more than five

brief years of Herkimer’s abode at Florence.

The possibility of such a

transformation being granted, it was as easy to conceive it effected in

a moment as in an age. Inexpressibly shocked and startled, it was still

the keenest pang when Herkimer remembered that the fate of his cousin

Rosina, the ideal of gentle womanhood, was indissolubly interwoven with

that of a being whom Providence seemed to have unhumanized.

“Elliston! Roderick!” cried he, “I had heard of this; but my conception

came far short of the truth. What has befallen you? Why do I find you

thus?”

“Oh, ’tis a mere nothing! A snake! A snake! The commonest thing in the

world. A snake in the bosom—that’s all,” answered Roderick Elliston.

“But how is your own breast?” continued he, looking the sculptor in the

eye with the most acute and penetrating glance that it had ever been

his fortune to encounter. “All pure and wholesome? No reptile there? By

my faith and conscience, and by the devil within me, here is a wonder!

A man without a serpent in his bosom!”

“Be calm, Elliston,” whispered George Herkimer, laying his hand upon

the shoulder of the snake-possessed. “I have crossed the ocean to meet

you. Listen! Let us be private. I bring a message from Rosina—from your

wife!”

“It gnaws me! It gnaws me!” muttered Roderick.

With this exclamation, the most frequent in his mouth, the unfortunate

man clutched both hands upon his breast as if an intolerable sting or

torture impelled him to rend it open and let out the living mischief,

even should it be intertwined with his own life. He then freed himself

from Herkimer’s grasp by a subtle motion, and, gliding through the

gate, took refuge in his antiquated family residence. The sculptor did

not pursue him. He saw that no available intercourse could be expected

at such a moment, and was desirous, before another meeting, to inquire

closely into the nature of Roderick’s disease and the circumstances

that had reduced him to so lamentable a condition. He succeeded in

obtaining the necessary information from an eminent medical gentleman.

Shortly after Elliston’s separation from his wife—now nearly four years

ago—his associates had observed a singular gloom spreading over his

daily life, like those chill, gray mists that sometimes steal away the

sunshine from a summer’s morning. The symptoms caused them endless

perplexity. They knew not whether ill health were robbing his spirits

of elasticity, or whether a canker of the mind was gradually eating, as

such cankers do, from his moral system into the physical frame, which

is but the shadow of the former.

They looked for the root of this

trouble in his shattered schemes of domestic bliss,—wilfully shattered

by himself,—but could not be satisfied of its existence there. Some

thought that their once brilliant friend was in an incipient stage of

insanity, of which his passionate impulses had perhaps been the

forerunners; others prognosticated a general blight and gradual

decline. From Roderick’s own lips they could learn nothing. More than

once, it is true, he had been heard to say, clutching his hands

convulsively upon his breast,—“It gnaws me! It gnaws me!”—but, by

different auditors, a great diversity of explanation was assigned to

this ominous expression. What could it be that gnawed the breast of

Roderick Elliston? Was it sorrow? Was it merely the tooth of physical

disease? Or, in his reckless course, often verging upon profligacy, if

not plunging into its depths, had he been guilty of some deed which

made his bosom a prey to the deadlier fangs of remorse? There was

plausible ground for each of these conjectures; but it must not be

concealed that more than one elderly gentleman, the victim of good

cheer and slothful habits, magisterially pronounced the secret of the

whole matter to be Dyspepsia!

Meanwhile, Roderick seemed aware how generally he had become the

subject of curiosity and conjecture, and, with a morbid repugnance to

such notice, or to any notice whatsoever, estranged himself from all

companionship. Not merely the eye of man was a horror to him; not

merely the light of a friend’s countenance; but even the blessed

sunshine, likewise, which in its universal beneficence typifies the

radiance of the Creator’s face, expressing his love for all the

creatures of his hand. The dusky twilight was now too transparent for

Roderick Elliston; the blackest midnight was his chosen hour to steal

abroad; and if ever he were seen, it was when the watchman’s lantern

gleamed upon his figure, gliding along the street, with his hands

clutched upon his bosom, still muttering, “It gnaws me! It gnaws me!”

What could it be that gnawed him?

After a time, it became known that Elliston was in the habit of

resorting to all the noted quacks that infested the city, or whom money

would tempt to journey thither from a distance. By one of these

persons, in the exultation of a supposed cure, it was proclaimed far

and wide, by dint of handbills and little pamphlets on dingy paper,

that a distinguished gentleman, Roderick Elliston, Esq.

, had been

relieved of a SNAKE in his stomach! So here was the monstrous secret,

ejected from its lurking place into public view, in all its horrible

deformity. The mystery was out; but not so the bosom serpent. He, if it

were anything but a delusion, still lay coiled in his living den. The

empiric’s cure had been a sham, the effect, it was supposed, of some

stupefying drug which more nearly caused the death of the patient than

of the odious reptile that possessed him. When Roderick Elliston

regained entire sensibility, it was to find his misfortune the town

talk—the more than nine days’ wonder and horror—while, at his bosom, he

felt the sickening motion of a thing alive, and the gnawing of that

restless fang which seemed to gratify at once a physical appetite and a

fiendish spite.

He summoned the old black servant, who had been bred up in his father’s

house, and was a middle-aged man while Roderick lay in his cradle.

“Scipio!” he began; and then paused, with his arms folded over his

heart. “What do people say of me, Scipio.”

“Sir! my poor master! that you had a serpent in your bosom,” answered

the servant with hesitation.

“And what else?” asked Roderick, with a ghastly look at the man.

“Nothing else, dear master,” replied Scipio, “only that the doctor gave

you a powder, and that the snake leaped out upon the floor.”

“No, no!” muttered Roderick to himself, as he shook his head, and

pressed his hands with a more convulsive force upon his breast, “I feel

him still. It gnaws me! It gnaws me!”

From this time the miserable sufferer ceased to shun the world, but

rather solicited and forced himself upon the notice of acquaintances

and strangers. It was partly the result of desperation on finding that

the cavern of his own bosom had not proved deep and dark enough to hide

the secret, even while it was so secure a fortress for the loathsome

fiend that had crept into it. But still more, this craving for

notoriety was a symptom of the intense morbidness which now pervaded

his nature. All persons chronically diseased are egotists, whether the

disease be of the mind or body; whether it be sin, sorrow, or merely

the more tolerable calamity of some endless pain, or mischief among the

cords of mortal life. Such individuals are made acutely conscious of a

self, by the torture in which it dwells. Self, therefore, grows to be

so prominent an object with them that they cannot but present it to the

face of every casual passer-by.

There is a pleasure—perhaps the

greatest of which the sufferer is susceptible—in displaying the wasted

or ulcerated limb, or the cancer in the breast; and the fouler the

crime, with so much the more difficulty does the perpetrator prevent it

from thrusting up its snake-like head to frighten the world; for it is

that cancer, or that crime, which constitutes their respective

individuality. Roderick Elliston, who, a little while before, had held

himself so scornfully above the common lot of men, now paid full

allegiance to this humiliating law. The snake in his bosom seemed the

symbol of a monstrous egotism to which everything was referred, and

which he pampered, night and day, with a continual and exclusive

sacrifice of devil worship.

He soon exhibited what most people considered indubitable tokens of

insanity. In some of his moods, strange to say, he prided and gloried

himself on being marked out from the ordinary experience of mankind, by

the possession of a double nature, and a life within a life. He

appeared to imagine that the snake was a divinity,—not celestial, it is

true, but darkly infernal,—and that he thence derived an eminence and a

sanctity, horrid, indeed, yet more desirable than whatever ambition

aims at. Thus he drew his misery around him like a regal mantle, and

looked down triumphantly upon those whose vitals nourished no deadly

monster. Oftener, however, his human nature asserted its empire over

him in the shape of a yearning for fellowship. It grew to be his custom

to spend the whole day in wandering about the streets, aimlessly,

unless it might be called an aim to establish a species of brotherhood

between himself and the world. With cankered ingenuity, he sought out

his own disease in every breast. Whether insane or not, he showed so

keen a perception of frailty, error, and vice, that many persons gave

him credit for being possessed not merely with a serpent, but with an

actual fiend, who imparted this evil faculty of recognizing whatever

was ugliest in man’s heart.

For instance, he met an individual, who, for thirty years, had

cherished a hatred against his own brother. Roderick, amidst the throng

of the street, laid his hand on this man’s chest, and looking full into

his forbidding face, “How is the snake to-day?” he inquired, with a

mock expression of sympathy.

“The snake!” exclaimed the brother hater—“what do you mean?”

“The snake! The snake! Does it gnaw you?” persisted Roderick.

“Did you

take counsel with him this morning when you should have been saying

your prayers? Did he sting, when you thought of your brother’s health,

wealth, and good repute? Did he caper for joy, when you remembered the

profligacy of his only son? And whether he stung, or whether he

frolicked, did you feel his poison throughout your body and soul,

converting everything to sourness and bitterness? That is the way of

such serpents. I have learned the whole nature of them from my own!”

“Where is the police?” roared the object of Roderick’s persecution, at

the same time giving an instinctive clutch to his breast. “Why is this

lunatic allowed to go at large?”

“Ha, ha!” chuckled Roderick, releasing his grasp of the man.— “His

bosom serpent has stung him then!”

Often it pleased the unfortunate young man to vex people with a lighter

satire, yet still characterized by somewhat of snake-like virulence.

One day he encountered an ambitious statesman, and gravely inquired

after the welfare of his boa constrictor; for of that species, Roderick

affirmed, this gentleman’s serpent must needs be, since its appetite

was enormous enough to devour the whole country and constitution. At

another time, he stopped a close-fisted old fellow, of great wealth,

but who skulked about the city in the guise of a scarecrow, with a

patched blue surtout, brown hat, and mouldy boots, scraping pence

together, and picking up rusty nails. Pretending to look earnestly at

this respectable person’s stomach, Roderick assured him that his snake

was a copper-head and had been generated by the immense quantities of

that base metal with which he daily defiled his fingers. Again, he

assaulted a man of rubicund visage, and told him that few bosom

serpents had more of the devil in them than those that breed in the

vats of a distillery. The next whom Roderick honored with his attention

was a distinguished clergyman, who happened just then to be engaged in

a theological controversy, where human wrath was more perceptible than

divine inspiration.

“You have swallowed a snake in a cup of sacramental wine,” quoth he.

“Profane wretch!” exclaimed the divine; but, nevertheless, his hand

stole to his breast.

He met a person of sickly sensibility, who, on some early

disappointment, had retired from the world, and thereafter held no

intercourse with his fellow-men, but brooded sullenly or passionately

over the irrevocable past. This man’s very heart, if Roderick might be

believed, had been changed into a serpent, which would finally torment

both him and itself to death.

Observing a married couple, whose

domestic troubles were matter of notoriety, he condoled with both on

having mutually taken a house adder to their bosoms. To an envious

author, who depreciated works which he could never equal, he said that

his snake was the slimiest and filthiest of all the reptile tribe, but

was fortunately without a sting. A man of impure life, and a brazen

face, asking Roderick if there were any serpent in his breast, he told

him that there was, and of the same species that once tortured Don

Rodrigo, the Goth. He took a fair young girl by the hand, and gazing

sadly into her eyes, warned her that she cherished a serpent of the

deadliest kind within her gentle breast; and the world found the truth

of those ominous words, when, a few months afterwards, the poor girl

died of love and shame. Two ladies, rivals in fashionable life who

tormented one another with a thousand little stings of womanish spite,

were given to understand that each of their hearts was a nest of

diminutive snakes, which did quite as much mischief as one great one.

But nothing seemed to please Roderick better than to lay hold of a

person infected with jealousy, which he represented as an enormous

green reptile, with an ice-cold length of body, and the sharpest sting

of any snake save one.

“And what one is that?” asked a by-stander, overhearing him.

It was a dark-browed man who put the question; he had an evasive eye,

which in the course of a dozen years had looked no mortal directly in

the face. There was an ambiguity about this person’s character,—a stain

upon his reputation,—yet none could tell precisely of what nature,

although the city gossips, male and female, whispered the most

atrocious surmises. Until a recent period he had followed the sea, and

was, in fact, the very shipmaster whom George Herkimer had encountered,

under such singular circumstances, in the Grecian Archipelago.

“What bosom serpent has the sharpest sting?” repeated this man; but he

put the question as if by a reluctant necessity, and grew pale while he

was uttering it.

“Why need you ask?” replied Roderick, with a look of dark intelligence.

“Look into your own breast. Hark! my serpent bestirs himself! He

acknowledges the presence of a master fiend!”

And then, as the by-standers afterwards affirmed, a hissing sound was

heard, apparently in Roderick Elliston’s breast. It was said, too, that

an answering hiss came from the vitals of the shipmaster, as if a snake

were actually lurking there and had been aroused by the call of its

brother reptile.

If there were in fact any such sound, it might have

been caused by a malicious exercise of ventriloquism on the part of

Roderick.

Thus making his own actual serpent—if a serpent there actually was in

his bosom—the type of each man’s fatal error, or hoarded sin, or

unquiet conscience, and striking his sting so unremorsefully into the

sorest spot, we may well imagine that Roderick became the pest of the

city. Nobody could elude him—none could withstand him. He grappled with

the ugliest truth that he could lay his hand on, and compelled his

adversary to do the same. Strange spectacle in human life where it is

the instinctive effort of one and all to hide those sad realities, and

leave them undisturbed beneath a heap of superficial topics which

constitute the materials of intercourse between man and man! It was not

to be tolerated that Roderick Elliston should break through the tacit

compact by which the world has done its best to secure repose without

relinquishing evil. The victims of his malicious remarks, it is true,

had brothers enough to keep them in countenance; for, by Roderick’s

theory, every mortal bosom harbored either a brood of small serpents or

one overgrown monster that had devoured all the rest. Still the city

could not bear this new apostle. It was demanded by nearly all, and

particularly by the most respectable inhabitants, that Roderick should

no longer be permitted to violate the received rules of decorum by

obtruding his own bosom serpent to the public gaze, and dragging those

of decent people from their lurking places.

Accordingly, his relatives interfered and placed him in a private

asylum for the insane. When the news was noised abroad, it was observed

that many persons walked the streets with freer countenances and

covered their breasts less carefully with their hands.

His confinement, however, although it contributed not a little to the

peace of the town, operated unfavorably upon Roderick himself. In

solitude his melancholy grew more black and sullen. He spent whole

days—indeed, it was his sole occupation—in communing with the serpent.

A conversation was sustained, in which, as it seemed, the hidden

monster bore a part, though unintelligibly to the listeners, and

inaudible except in a hiss. Singular as it may appear, the sufferer had

now contracted a sort of affection for his tormentor, mingled, however,

with the intensest loathing and horror. Nor were such discordant

emotions incompatible. Each, on the contrary, imparted strength and

poignancy to its opposite.

Horrible love—horrible antipathy—embracing

one another in his bosom, and both concentrating themselves upon a

being that had crept into his vitals or been engendered there, and

which was nourished with his food, and lived upon his life, and was as

intimate with him as his own heart, and yet was the foulest of all

created things! But not the less was it the true type of a morbid

nature.

Sometimes, in his moments of rage and bitter hatred against the snake

and himself, Roderick determined to be the death of him, even at the

expense of his own life. Once he attempted it by starvation; but, while

the wretched man was on the point of famishing, the monster seemed to

feed upon his heart, and to thrive and wax gamesome, as if it were his

sweetest and most congenial diet. Then he privily took a dose of active

poison, imagining that it would not fail to kill either himself or the

devil that possessed him, or both together. Another mistake; for if

Roderick had not yet been destroyed by his own poisoned heart nor the

snake by gnawing it, they had little to fear from arsenic or corrosive

sublimate. Indeed, the venomous pest appeared to operate as an antidote

against all other poisons. The physicians tried to suffocate the fiend

with tobacco smoke. He breathed it as freely as if it were his native

atmosphere. Again, they drugged their patient with opium and drenched

him with intoxicating liquors, hoping that the snake might thus be

reduced to stupor and perhaps be ejected from the stomach. They

succeeded in rendering Roderick insensible; but, placing their hands

upon his breast, they were inexpressibly horror stricken to feel the

monster wriggling, twining, and darting to and fro within his narrow

limits, evidently enlivened by the opium or alcohol, and incited to

unusual feats of activity. Thenceforth they gave up all attempts at

cure or palliation. The doomed sufferer submitted to his fate, resumed

his former loathsome affection for the bosom fiend, and spent whole

miserable days before a looking-glass, with his mouth wide open,

watching, in hope and horror, to catch a glimpse of the snake’s head

far down within his throat. It is supposed that he succeeded; for the

attendants once heard a frenzied shout, and, rushing into the room,

found Roderick lifeless upon the floor.

He was kept but little longer under restraint.

After minute

investigation, the medical directors of the asylum decided that his

mental disease did not amount to insanity, nor would warrant his

confinement, especially as its influence upon his spirits was

unfavorable, and might produce the evil which it was meant to remedy.

His eccentricities were doubtless great; he had habitually violated

many of the customs and prejudices of society; but the world was not,

without surer ground, entitled to treat him as a madman. On this

decision of such competent authority Roderick was released, and had

returned to his native city the very day before his encounter with

George Herkimer.

As soon as possible after learning these particulars the sculptor,

together with a sad and tremulous companion, sought Elliston at his own

house. It was a large, sombre edifice of wood, with pilasters and a

balcony, and was divided from one of the principal streets by a terrace

of three elevations, which was ascended by successive flights of stone

steps. Some immense old elms almost concealed the front of the mansion.

This spacious and once magnificent family residence was built by a

grandee of the race early in the past century, at which epoch, land

being of small comparative value, the garden and other grounds had

formed quite an extensive domain. Although a portion of the ancestral

heritage had been alienated, there was still a shadowy enclosure in the

rear of the mansion where a student, or a dreamer, or a man of stricken

heart might lie all day upon the grass, amid the solitude of murmuring

boughs, and forget that a city had grown up around him.

Into this retirement the sculptor and his companion were ushered by

Scipio, the old black servant, whose wrinkled visage grew almost sunny

with intelligence and joy as he paid his humble greetings to one of the

two visitors.

“Remain in the arbor,” whispered the sculptor to the figure that leaned

upon his arm. “You will know whether, and when, to make your

appearance.”

“God will teach me,” was the reply. “May He support me too!”

Roderick was reclining on the margin of a fountain which gushed into

the fleckered sunshine with the same clear sparkle and the same voice

of airy quietude as when trees of primeval growth flung their shadows

cross its bosom. How strange is the life of a fountain!—born at every

moment, yet of an age coeval with the rocks, and far surpassing the

venerable antiquity of a forest.

“You are come! I have expected you,” said Elliston, when he became

aware of the sculptor’s presence.

His manner was very different from that of the preceding day—quiet,

courteous, and, as Herkimer thought, watchful both over his guest and

himself. This unnatural restraint was almost the only trait that

betokened anything amiss. He had just thrown a book upon the grass,

where it lay half opened, thus disclosing itself to be a natural

history of the serpent tribe, illustrated by lifelike plates. Near it

lay that bulky volume, the Ductor Dubitantium of Jeremy Taylor, full of

cases of conscience, and in which most men, possessed of a conscience,

may find something applicable to their purpose.

“You see,” observed Elliston, pointing to the book of serpents, while a

smile gleamed upon his lips, “I am making an effort to become better

acquainted with my bosom friend; but I find nothing satisfactory in

this volume. If I mistake not, he will prove to be sui generis, and

akin to no other reptile in creation.”

“Whence came this strange calamity?” inquired the sculptor.

“My sable friend Scipio has a story,” replied Roderick, “of a snake

that had lurked in this fountain—pure and innocent as it looks—ever

since it was known to the first settlers. This insinuating personage

once crept into the vitals of my great grandfather and dwelt there many

years, tormenting the old gentleman beyond mortal endurance. In short

it is a family peculiarity. But, to tell you the truth, I have no faith

in this idea of the snake’s being an heirloom. He is my own snake, and

no man’s else.”

“But what was his origin?” demanded Herkimer.

“Oh, there is poisonous stuff in any man’s heart sufficient to generate

a brood of serpents,” said Elliston with a hollow laugh. “You should

have heard my homilies to the good town’s-people. Positively, I deem

myself fortunate in having bred but a single serpent. You, however,

have none in your bosom, and therefore cannot sympathize with the rest

of the world. It gnaws me! It gnaws me!”

With this exclamation Roderick lost his self-control and threw himself

upon the grass, testifying his agony by intricate writhings, in which

Herkimer could not but fancy a resemblance to the motions of a snake.

Then, likewise, was heard that frightful hiss, which often ran through

the sufferer’s speech, and crept between the words and syllables

without interrupting their succession.

“This is awful indeed!” exclaimed the sculptor—“an awful infliction,

whether it be actual or imaginary. Tell me, Roderick Elliston, is there

any remedy for this loathsome evil?”

“Yes, but an impossible one,” muttered Roderick, as he lay wallowing

with his face in the grass.

“Could I for one moment forget myself, the

serpent might not abide within me. It is my diseased self-contemplation

that has engendered and nourished him.”

“Then forget yourself, my husband,” said a gentle voice above him;

“forget yourself in the idea of another!”

Rosina had emerged from the arbor, and was bending over him with the

shadow of his anguish reflected in her countenance, yet so mingled with

hope and unselfish love that all anguish seemed but an earthly shadow

and a dream. She touched Roderick with her hand. A tremor shivered

through his frame. At that moment, if report be trustworthy, the

sculptor beheld a waving motion through the grass, and heard a tinkling

sound, as if something had plunged into the fountain. Be the truth as

it might, it is certain that Roderick Elliston sat up like a man

renewed, restored to his right mind, and rescued from the fiend which

had so miserably overcome him in the battle-field of his own breast.

“Rosina!” cried he, in broken and passionate tones, but with nothing of

the wild wail that had haunted his voice so long, “forgive! forgive!”

Her happy tears bedewed his face.

“The punishment has been severe,” observed the sculptor. “Even Justice

might now forgive; how much more a woman’s tenderness! Roderick

Elliston, whether the serpent was a physical reptile, or whether the

morbidness of your nature suggested that symbol to your fancy, the

moral of the story is not the less true and strong. A tremendous

Egotism, manifesting itself in your case in the form of jealousy, is as

fearful a fiend as ever stole into the human heart. Can a breast, where

it has dwelt so long, be purified?”

“Oh yes,” said Rosina with a heavenly smile. “The serpent was but a

dark fantasy, and what it typified was as shadowy as itself. The past,

dismal as it seems, shall fling no gloom upon the future. To give it

its due importance we must think of it but as an anecdote in our

Eternity.”

Chapter 16.

THE CHRISTMAS BANQUET.

FROM THE UNPUBLISHED “ALLEGORIES OF THE HEART.”

“I have here attempted,” said Roderick, unfolding a few sheets of

manuscript, as he sat with Rosina and the sculptor in the

summer-house,—“I have attempted to seize hold of a personage who glides

past me, occasionally, in my walk through life. My former sad

experience, as you know, has gifted me with some degree of insight into

the gloomy mysteries of the human heart, through which I have wandered

like one astray in a dark cavern, with his torch fast flickering to

extinction. But this man, this class of men, is a hopeless puzzle.

“Well, but propound him,” said the sculptor. “Let us have an idea of

hint, to begin with.”

“Why, indeed,” replied Roderick, “he is such a being as I could

conceive you to carve out of marble, and some yet unrealized perfection

of human science to endow with an exquisite mockery of intellect; but

still there lacks the last inestimable touch of a divine Creator. He

looks like a man; and, perchance, like a better specimen of man than

you ordinarily meet. You might esteem him wise; he is capable of

cultivation and refinement, and has at least an external conscience;

but the demands that spirit makes upon spirit are precisely those to

which he cannot respond. When at last you come close to him you find

him chill and unsubstantial,—a mere vapor.”

“I believe,” said Rosina, “I have a glimmering idea of what you mean.”

“Then be thankful,” answered her husband, smiling; “but do not

anticipate any further illumination from what I am about to read. I

have here imagined such a man to be—what, probably, he never

is—conscious of the deficiency in his spiritual organization. Methinks

the result would be a sense of cold unreality wherewith he would go

shivering through the world, longing to exchange his load of ice for

any burden of real grief that fate could fling upon a human being.”

Contenting himself with this preface, Roderick began to read.

In a certain old gentleman’s last will and testament there appeared a

bequest, which, as his final thought and deed, was singularly in

keeping with a long life of melancholy eccentricity. He devised a

considerable sum for establishing a fund, the interest of which was to

be expended, annually forever, in preparing a Christmas Banquet for ten

of the most miserable persons that could be found. It seemed not to be

the testator’s purpose to make these half a score of sad hearts merry,

but to provide that the stern or fierce expression of human discontent

should not be drowned, even for that one holy and joyful day, amid the

acclamations of festal gratitude which all Christendom sends up. And he

desired, likewise, to perpetuate his own remonstrance against the

earthly course of Providence, and his sad and sour dissent from those

systems of religion or philosophy which either find sunshine in the

world or draw it down from heaven.

The task of inviting the guests, or of selecting among such as might

advance their claims to partake of this dismal hospitality, was

confided to the two trustees or stewards of the fund.

These gentlemen,

like their deceased friend, were sombre humorists, who made it their

principal occupation to number the sable threads in the web of human

life, and drop all the golden ones out of the reckoning. They performed

their present office with integrity and judgment. The aspect of the

assembled company, on the day of the first festival, might not, it is

true, have satisfied every beholder that these were especially the

individuals, chosen forth from all the world, whose griefs were worthy

to stand as indicators of the mass of human suffering. Yet, after due

consideration, it could not be disputed that here was a variety of

hopeless discomfort, which, if it sometimes arose from causes

apparently inadequate, was thereby only the shrewder imputation against

the nature and mechanism of life.

The arrangements and decorations of the banquet were probably intended

to signify that death in life which had been the testator’s definition

of existence. The hall, illuminated by torches, was hung round with

curtains of deep and dusky purple, and adorned with branches of cypress

and wreaths of artificial flowers, imitative of such as used to be

strewn over the dead. A sprig of parsley was laid by every plate. The

main reservoir of wine, was a sepulchral urn of silver, whence the

liquor was distributed around the table in small vases, accurately

copied from those that held the tears of ancient mourners. Neither had

the stewards—if it were their taste that arranged these

details—forgotten the fantasy of the old Egyptians, who seated a

skeleton at every festive board, and mocked their own merriment with

the imperturbable grin of a death’s-head. Such a fearful guest,

shrouded in a black mantle, sat now at the head of the table. It was

whispered, I know not with what truth, that the testator himself had

once walked the visible world with the machinery of that sane skeleton,

and that it was one of the stipulations of his will, that he should

thus be permitted to sit, from year to year, at the banquet which he

had instituted. If so, it was perhaps covertly implied that he had

cherished no hopes of bliss beyond the grave to compensate for the

evils which he felt or imagined here. And if, in their bewildered

conjectures as to the purpose of earthly existence, the banqueters

should throw aside the veil, and cast an inquiring glance at this

figure of death, as seeking thence the solution otherwise unattainable,

the only reply would be a stare of the vacant eye-caverns and a grin of

the skeleton jaws.

Such was the response that the dead man had fancied

himself to receive when he asked of Death to solve the riddle of his

life; and it was his desire to repeat it when the guests of his dismal

hospitality should find themselves perplexed with the same question.

“What means that wreath?” asked several of the company, while viewing

the decorations of the table.

They alluded to a wreath of cypress, which was held on high by a

skeleton arm, protruding from within the black mantle.

“It is a crown,” said one of the stewards, “not for the worthiest, but

for the wofulest, when he shall prove his claim to it.”

The guest earliest bidden to the festival was a man of soft and gentle

character, who had not energy to struggle against the heavy despondency

to which his temperament rendered him liable; and therefore with

nothing outwardly to excuse him from happiness, he had spent a life of

quiet misery that made his blood torpid, and weighed upon his breath,

and sat like a ponderous night-fiend upon every throb of his

unresisting heart. His wretchedness seemed as deep as his original

nature, if not identical with it. It was the misfortune of a second

guest to cherish within his bosom a diseased heart, which had become so

wretchedly sore that the continual and unavoidable rubs of the world,

the blow of an enemy, the careless jostle of a stranger, and even the

faithful and loving touch of a friend, alike made ulcers in it. As is

the habit of people thus afflicted, he found his chief employment in

exhibiting these miserable sores to any who would give themselves the

pain of viewing them. A third guest was a hypochondriac, whose

imagination wrought necromancy in his outward and inward world, and

caused him to see monstrous faces in the household fire, and dragons in

the clouds of sunset, and fiends in the guise of beautiful women, and

something ugly or wicked beneath all the pleasant surfaces of nature.

His neighbor at table was one who, in his early youth, had trusted

mankind too much, and hoped too highly in their behalf, and, in meeting

with many disappointments, had become desperately soured. For several

years back this misanthrope bad employed himself in accumulating

motives for hating and despising his race,—such as murder, lust,

treachery, ingratitude, faithlessness of trusted friends, instinctive

vices of children, impurity of women, hidden guilt in men of saint-like

aspect,—and, in short, all manner of black realities that sought to

decorate themselves with outward grace or glory.

But at every atrocious

fact that was added to his catalogue, at every increase of the sad

knowledge which he spent his life to collect, the native impulses of

the poor man’s loving and confiding heart made him groan with anguish.

Next, with his heavy brow bent downward, there stole into the hall a

man naturally earnest and impassioned, who, from his immemorial

infancy, had felt the consciousness of a high message to the world;

but, essaying to deliver it, had found either no voice or form of

speech, or else no ears to listen. Therefore his whole life was a

bitter questioning of himself: “Why have not men acknowledged my

mission? Am I not a self-deluding fool? What business have I on earth?

Where is my grave?” Throughout the festival, he quaffed frequent

draughts from the sepulchral urn of wine, hoping thus to quench the

celestial fire that tortured his own breast and could not benefit his

race.

Then there entered, having flung away a ticket for a ball, a gay

gallant of yesterday, who had found four or five wrinkles in his brow,

and more gray hairs than he could well number on his head. Endowed with

sense and feeling, he had nevertheless spent his youth in folly, but

had reached at last that dreary point in life where Folly quits us of

her own accord, leaving us to make friends with Wisdom if we can. Thus,

cold and desolate, he had come to seek Wisdom at the banquet, and

wondered if the skeleton were she. To eke out the company, the stewards

had invited a distressed poet from his home in the almshouse, and a

melancholy idiot from the street-corner. The latter had just the

glimmering of sense that was sufficient to make him conscious of a

vacancy, which the poor fellow, all his life long, had mistily sought

to fill up with intelligence, wandering up and down the streets, and

groaning miserably because his attempts were ineffectual. The only lady

in the hall was one who had fallen short of absolute and perfect

beauty, merely by the trifling defect of a slight cast in her left eye.

But this blemish, minute as it was, so shocked the pure ideal of her

soul, rather than her vanity, that she passed her life in solitude, and

veiled her countenance even from her own gaze. So the skeleton sat

shrouded at one end of the table, and this poor lady at the other.

One other guest remains to be described. He was a young man of smooth

brow, fair cheek, and fashionable mien.

So far as his exterior

developed him, he might much more suitably have found a place at some

merry Christmas table, than have been numbered among the blighted,

fate-stricken, fancy-tortured set of ill-starred banqueters. Murmurs

arose among the guests as they noted, the glance of general scrutiny

which the intruder threw over his companions. What had he to do among

them? Why did not the skeleton of the dead founder of the feast unbend

its rattling joints, arise, and motion the unwelcome stranger from the

board?

“Shameful!” said the morbid man, while a new ulcer broke out in his

heart. “He comes to mock us! we shall be the jest of his tavern friends

I—he will make a farce of our miseries, and bring it out upon the

stage!”

“O, never mind him!” said the hypochondriac, smiling sourly. “He shall

feast from yonder tureen of viper-soup; and if there is a fricassee of

scorpions on the table, pray let him have his share of it. For the

dessert, he shall taste the apples of Sodom, then, if he like our

Christmas fare, let him return again next year!”

“Trouble him not,” murmured the melancholy man, with gentleness. “What

matters it whether the consciousness of misery come a few years sooner

or later? If this youth deem himself happy now, yet let him sit with us

for the sake of the wretchedness to come.”

The poor idiot approached the young man with that mournful aspect of

vacant inquiry which his face continually wore, and which caused people

to say that he was always in search of his missing wits. After no

little examination he touched the stranger’s hand, but immediately drew

back his own, shaking his head and shivering.

“Cold, cold, cold!” muttered the idiot.

The young man shivered too, and smiled.

“Gentlemen, and you, madam,” said one of the stewards of the festival,

“do not conceive so ill either of our caution or judgment, as to

imagine that we have admitted this young stranger—Gervayse Hastings by

name—without a full investigation and thoughtful balance of his claims.

Trust me, not a guest at the table is better entitled to his seat.”

The steward’s guaranty was perforce satisfactory. The company,

therefore, took their places, and addressed themselves to the serious

business of the feast, but were soon disturbed by the hypochondriac,

who thrust back his chair, complaining that a dish of stewed toads and

vipers was set before him, and that there was green ditchwater in his

cup of wine. This mistake being amended, he quietly resumed his seat.

The wine, as it flowed freely from the sepulchral urn, seemed to come

imbued with all gloomy inspirations; so that its influence was not to

cheer, but either to sink the revellers into a deeper melancholy, or

elevate their spirits to an enthusiasm of wretchedness. The

conversation was various. They told sad stories about people who might

have been Worthy guests at such a festival as the present. They talked

of grisly incidents in human history; of strange crimes, which, if

truly considered, were but convulsions of agony; of some lives that had

been altogether wretched, and of others, which, wearing a general

semblance of happiness, had yet been deformed, sooner or later, by

misfortune, as by the intrusion of a grim face at a banquet; of

death-bed scenes, and what dark intimations might be gathered from the

words of dying men; of suicide, and whether the more eligible mode were

by halter, knife, poison, drowning, gradual starvation, or the fumes of

charcoal. The majority of the guests, as is the custom with people

thoroughly and profoundly sick at heart, were anxious to make their own

woes the theme of discussion, and prove themselves most excellent in

anguish. The misanthropist went deep into the philosophy of evil, and

wandered about in the darkness, with now and then a gleam of discolored

light hovering on ghastly shapes and horrid scenery. Many a miserable

thought, such as men have stumbled upon from age to age, did he now

rake up again, and gloat over it as an inestimable gem, a diamond, a

treasure far preferable to those bright, spiritual revelations of a

better world, which are like precious stones from heaven’s pavement.

And then, amid his lore of wretchedness he hid his face and wept.

It was a festival at which the woful man of Uz might suitably have been

a guest, together with all, in each succeeding age, who have tasted

deepest of the bitterness of life. And be it said, too, that every son

or daughter of woman, however favored with happy fortune, might, at one

sad moment or another, have claimed the privilege of a stricken heart,

to sit down at this table. But, throughout the feast, it was remarked

that the young stranger, Gervayse Hastings, was unsuccessful in his

attempts to catch its pervading spirit. At any deep, strong thought

that found utterance, and which was torn out, as it were, from the

saddest recesses of human consciousness, he looked mystified and

bewildered; even more than the poor idiot, who seemed to grasp at such

things with his earnest heart, and thus occasionally to comprehend

them.

The young man’s conversation was of a colder and lighter kind,

often brilliant, but lacking the powerful characteristics of a nature

that had been developed by suffering.

“Sir,” said the misanthropist, bluntly, in reply to some observation by

Gervayse Hastings, “pray do not address me again. We have no right to

talk together. Our minds have nothing in common. By what claim you

appear at this banquet I cannot guess; but methinks, to a man who could

say what you have just now said, my companions and myself must seem no

more than shadows flickering on the wall. And precisely such a shadow

are you to us.”

The young man smiled and bowed, but, drawing himself back in his chair,

he buttoned his coat over his breast, as if the banqueting-ball were

growing chill. Again the idiot fixed his melancholy stare upon the

youth, and murmured, “Cold! cold! cold!”

The banquet drew to its conclusion, and the guests departed. Scarcely

had they stepped across the threshold of the hall, when the scene that

had there passed seemed like the vision of a sick fancy, or an

exhalation from a stagnant heart. Now and then, however, during the

year that ensued, these melancholy people caught glimpses of one

another, transient, indeed, but enough to prove that they walked the

earth with the ordinary allotment of reality. Sometimes a pair of them

came face to face, while stealing through the evening twilight,

enveloped in their sable cloaks. Sometimes they casually met in

churchyards. Once, also, it happened that two of the dismal banqueters

mutually started at recognizing each other in the noonday sunshine of a

crowded street, stalking there like ghosts astray. Doubtless they

wondered why the skeleton did not come abroad at noonday too.

But whenever the necessity of their affairs compelled these Christmas

guests into the bustling world, they were sure to encounter the young

man who had so unaccountably been admitted to the festival.

They saw

him among the gay and fortunate; they caught the sunny sparkle of his

eye; they heard the light and careless tones of his voice, and muttered

to themselves with such indignation as only the aristocracy of

wretchedness could kindle, “The traitor! The vile impostor! Providence,

in its own good time, may give him a right to feast among us!” But the

young man’s unabashed eye dwelt upon their gloomy figures as they

passed him, seeming to say, perchance with somewhat of a sneer, “First,

know my secret then, measure your claims with mine!”

The step of Time stole onward, and soon brought merry Christmas round

again, with glad and solemn worship in the churches, and sports, games,

festivals, and everywhere the bright face of Joy beside the household

fire. Again likewise the hall, with its curtains of dusky purple, was

illuminated by the death-torches gleaming on the sepulchral decorations

of the banquet. The veiled, skeleton sat in state, lifting the

cypress-wreath above its head, as the guerdon of some guest illustrious

in the qualifications which there claimed precedence. As the stewards

deemed the world inexhaustible in misery, and were desirous of

recognizing it in all its forms, they had not seen fit to reassemble

the company of the former year. New faces now threw their gloom across

the table.

There was a man of nice conscience, who bore a blood-stain in his

heart—the death of a fellow-creature—which, for his more exquisite

torture, had chanced with such a peculiarity of circumstances, that he

could not absolutely determine whether his will had entered into the

deed or not. Therefore, his whole life was spent in the agony of an

inward trial for murder, with a continual sifting of the details of his

terrible calamity, until his mind had no longer any thought, nor his

soul any emotion, disconnected with it, There was a mother, too,—a

mother once, but a desolation now,—who, many years before, had gone out

on a pleasure-party, and, returning, found her infant smothered in its

little bed. And ever since she has been tortured with the fantasy that

her buried baby lay smothering in its coffin. Then there was an aged

lady, who had lived from time immemorial with a constant tremor

quivering through her-frame. It was terrible to discern her dark shadow

tremulous upon the wall; her lips, likewise, were tremulous; and the

expression of her eye seemed to indicate that her soul was trembling

too.

Owing to the bewilderment and confusion which made almost a chaos

of her intellect, it was impossible to discover what dire misfortune

had thus shaken her nature to its depths; so that the stewards had

admitted her to the table, not from any acquaintance with her history,

but on the safe testimony of her miserable aspect. Some surprise was

expressed at the presence of a bluff, red-faced gentleman, a certain

Mr. Smith, who had evidently the fat of many a rich feast within him,

and the habitual twinkle of whose eye betrayed a disposition to break

forth into uproarious laughter for little cause or none. It turned out,

however, that, with the best possible flow of spirits, our poor friend

was afflicted with a physical disease of the heart, which threatened

instant death on the slightest cachinnatory indulgence, or even that

titillation of the bodily frame produced by merry thoughts. In this

dilemma he had sought admittance to the banquet, on the ostensible plea

of his irksome and miserable state, but, in reality, with the hope of

imbibing a life-preserving melancholy.

A married couple had been invited from a motive of bitter humor, it

being well understood that they rendered each other unutterably

miserable whenever they chanced to meet, and therefore must necessarily

be fit associates at the festival. In contrast with these was another

couple still unmarried, who had interchanged their hearts in early

life, but had been divided by circumstances as impalpable as morning

mist, and kept apart so long that their spirits now found it impossible

to meet, Therefore, yearning for communion, yet shrinking from one

another and choosing none beside, they felt themselves companionless in

life, and looked upon eternity as a boundless desert. Next to the

skeleton sat a mere son of earth,—a hunter of the Exchange,—a gatherer

of shining dust,—a man whose life’s record was in his ledger, and whose

soul’s prison-house the vaults of the bank where he kept his deposits.

This person had been greatly perplexed at his invitation, deeming

himself one of the most fortunate men in the city; but the stewards

persisted in demanding his presence, assuring him that he had no

conception how miserable he was.

And now appeared a figure which we must acknowledge as our acquaintance

of the former festival. It was Gervayse Hastings, whose presence had

then caused so much question and criticism, and who now took his place

with the composure of one whose claims were satisfactory to himself and

must needs be allowed by others. Yet his easy and unruffled face

betrayed no sorrow.

The well-skilled beholders gazed a moment into his eyes and shook their

heads, to miss the unuttered sympathy—the countersign never to be

falsified—of those whose hearts are cavern-mouths through which they

descend into a region of illimitable woe and recognize other wanderers

there.

“Who is this youth?” asked the man with a bloodstain on his conscience.

“Surely he has never gone down into the depths! I know all the aspects

of those who have passed through the dark valley. By what right is he

among us?”

“Ah, it is a sinful thing to come hither without a sorrow,” murmured

the aged lady, in accents that partook of the eternal tremor which

pervaded her whole being “Depart, young man! Your soul has never been

shaken, and, therefore, I tremble so much the more to look at you.”

“His soul shaken! No; I’ll answer for it,” said bluff Mr. Smith,

pressing his hand upon his heart and making himself as melancholy as he

could, for fear of a fatal explosion of laughter. “I know the lad well;

he has as fair prospects as any young man about town, and has no more

right among us miserable creatures than the child unborn. He never was

miserable and probably never will be!”

“Our honored guests,” interposed the stewards, “pray have patience with

us, and believe, at least, that our deep veneration for the sacredness

of this solemnity would preclude any wilful violation of it. Receive

this young man to your table. It may not be too much to say, that no

guest here would exchange his own heart for the one that beats within

that youthful bosom!”

“I’d call it a bargain, and gladly, too,” muttered Mr. Smith, with a

perplexing mixture of sadness and mirthful conceit. “A plague upon

their nonsense! My own heart is the only really miserable one in the

company; it will certainly be the death of me at last!”

Nevertheless, as on the former occasion, the judgment of the stewards

being without appeal, the company sat down. The obnoxious guest made no

more attempt to obtrude his conversation on those about him, but

appeared to listen to the table-talk with peculiar assiduity, as if

some inestimable secret, otherwise beyond his reach, might be conveyed

in a casual word. And in truth, to those who could understand and value

it, there was rich matter in the upgushings and outpourings of these

initiated souls to whom sorrow had been a talisman, admitting them into

spiritual depths which no other spell can open.

Sometimes out of the

midst of densest gloom there flashed a momentary radiance, pure as

crystal, bright as the flame of stars, and shedding such a glow upon

the mysteries of life, that the guests were ready to exclaim, “Surely

the riddle is on the point of being solved!” At such illuminated

intervals the saddest mourners felt it to be revealed that mortal

griefs are but shadowy and external; no more than the sable robes

voluminously shrouding a certain divine reality, and thus indicating

what might otherwise be altogether invisible to mortal eye.

“Just now,” remarked the trembling old woman, “I seemed to see beyond

the outside. And then my everlasting tremor passed away!”

“Would that I could dwell always in these momentary gleams of light!”

said the man of stricken conscience. “Then the blood-stain in my heart

would be washed clean away.”

This strain of conversation appeared so unintelligibly absurd to good

Mr. Smith, that he burst into precisely the fit of laughter which his

physicians had warned him against, as likely to prove instantaneously

fatal. In effect, he fell back in his chair a corpse, with a broad grin

upon his face, while his ghost, perchance, remained beside it

bewildered at its unpremeditated exit. This catastrophe of course broke

up the festival.

“How is this? You do not tremble!” observed the tremulous old woman to

Gervayse Hastings, who was gazing at the dead man with singular

intentness. “Is it not awful to see him so suddenly vanish out of the

midst of life,—this man of flesh and blood, whose earthly nature was so

warm and strong? There is a never-ending tremor in my soul, but it

trembles afresh at, this! And you are calm!”

“Would that he could teach me somewhat!” said Gervayse Hastings,

drawing a long breath. “Men pass before me like shadows on the wall;

their actions, passions, feelings, are flickerings of the light, and

then they vanish! Neither the corpse, nor yonder skeleton, nor this old

woman’s everlasting tremor, can give me what I seek.”

And then the company departed.

We cannot linger to narrate, in such detail, more circumstances of

these singular festivals, which, in accordance with the founder’s will,

continued to be kept with the regularity of an established institution.

In process of time the stewards adopted the custom of inviting, from

far and near, those individuals whose misfortunes were prominent above

other men’s, and whose mental and moral development might, therefore,

be supposed to possess a corresponding interest.

The exiled noble of

the French Revolution, and the broken soldier of the Empire, were alike

represented at the table. Fallen monarchs, wandering about the earth,

have found places at that forlorn and miserable feast. The statesman,

when his party flung him off, might, if he chose it, be once more a

great man for the space of a single banquet. Aaron Burr’s name appears

on the record at a period when his ruin—the profoundest and most

striking, with more of moral circumstance in it than that of almost any

other man—was complete in his lonely age. Stephen Guard, when his

wealth weighed upon him like a mountain, once sought admittance of his

own accord. It is not probable, however, that these men had any lesson

to teach in the lore of discontent and misery which might not equally

well have been studied in the common walks of life. Illustrious

unfortunates attract a wider sympathy, not because their griefs are

more intense, but because, being set on lofty pedestals, they the

better serve mankind as instances and bywords of calamity.

It concerns our present purpose to say that, at each successive

festival, Gervayse Hastings showed his face, gradually changing from

the smooth beauty of his youth to the thoughtful comeliness of manhood,

and thence to the bald, impressive dignity of age. He was the only

individual invariably present. Yet on every occasion there were

murmurs, both from those who knew his character and position, and from

them whose hearts shrank back as denying his companionship in their

mystic fraternity.

“Who is this impassive man?” had been asked a hundred times. “Has he

suffered? Has he sinned? There are no traces of either. Then wherefore

is he here?”

“You must inquire of the stewards or of himself,” was the constant

reply. “We seem to know him well here in our city, and know nothing of

him but what is creditable and fortunate. Yet hither he comes, year

after year, to this gloomy banquet, and sits among the guests like a

marble statue. Ask yonder skeleton, perhaps that may solve the riddle!”

It was in truth a wonder. The life of Gervayse Hastings was not merely

a prosperous, but a brilliant one. Everything had gone well with him.

He was wealthy, far beyond the expenditure that was required by habits

of magnificence, a taste of rare purity and cultivation, a love of

travel, a scholar’s instinct to collect a splendid library, and,

moreover, what seemed a magnificent liberality to the distressed. He

had sought happiness, and not vainly, if a lovely and tender wife, and

children of fair promise, could insure it.

He had, besides, ascended

above the limit which separates the obscure from the distinguished, and

had won a stainless reputation in affairs of the widest public

importance. Not that he was a popular character, or had within him the

mysterious attributes which are essential to that species of success.

To the public he was a cold abstraction, wholly destitute of those rich

lines of personality, that living warmth, and the peculiar faculty of

stamping his own heart’s impression on a multitude of hearts, by which

the people recognize their favorites. And it must be owned that, after

his most intimate associates had done their best to know him

thoroughly, and love him warmly, they were startled to find how little

hold he had upon their affections. They approved, they admired, but

still in those moments when the human spirit most craves reality, they

shrank back from Gervayse Hastings, as powerless to give them what they

sought. It was the feeling of distrustful regret with which we should

draw back the hand after extending it, in an illusive twilight, to

grasp the hand of a shadow upon the wall.

As the superficial fervency of youth decayed, this peculiar effect of

Gervayse Hastings’s character grew more perceptible. His children, when

he extended his arms, came coldly to his knees, but never climbed them

of their own accord. His wife wept secretly, and almost adjudged

herself a criminal because she shivered in the chill of his bosom. He,

too, occasionally appeared not unconscious of the chillness of his

moral atmosphere, and willing, if it might be so, to warm himself at a

kindly fire. But age stole onward and benumbed him snore and more. As

the hoar-frost began to gather on him his wife went to her grave, and

was doubtless warmer there; his children either died or were scattered

to different homes of their own; and old Gervayse Hastings, unscathed

by grief,—alone, but needing no companionship,—continued his steady

walk through life, and still one very Christmas day attended at the

dismal banquet. His privilege as a guest had become prescriptive now.

Had he claimed the head of the table, even the skeleton would have been

ejected from its seat.

Finally, at the merry Christmas-tide, when he had numbered fourscore

years complete, this pale, highbrowed, marble-featured old man once

more entered the long-frequented hall, with the same impassive aspect

that had called forth so much dissatisfied remark at his first

attendance. Time, except in matters merely external, had done nothing

for him, either of good or evil.

As he took his place he threw a calm,

inquiring glance around the table, as if to ascertain whether any guest

had yet appeared, after so many unsuccessful banquets, who might impart

to him the mystery—the deep, warm secret—the life within the

life—which, whether manifested in joy or sorrow, is what gives

substance to a world of shadows.

“My friends,” said Gervayse Hastings, assuming a position which his

long conversance with the festival caused to appear natural, “you are

welcome! I drink to you all in this cup of sepulchral wine.”

The guests replied courteously, but still in a manner that proved them

unable to receive the old man as a member of their sad fraternity. It

may be well to give the reader an idea of the present company at the

banquet.

One was formerly a clergyman, enthusiastic in his profession, and

apparently of the genuine dynasty of those old Puritan divines whose

faith in their calling, and stern exercise of it, had placed them among

the mighty of the earth. But yielding to the speculative tendency of

the age, he had gone astray from the firm foundation of an ancient

faith, and wandered into a cloud-region, where everything was misty and

deceptive, ever mocking him with a semblance of reality, but still

dissolving when he flung himself upon it for support and rest. His

instinct and early training demanded something steadfast; but, looking

forward, he beheld vapors piled on vapors, and behind him an impassable

gulf between the man of yesterday and to-day, on the borders of which

he paced to and fro, sometimes wringing his hands in agony, and often

making his own woe a theme of scornful merriment. This surely was a

miserable man. Next, there was a theorist,—one of a numerous tribe,

although he deemed himself unique since the creation,—a theorist, who

had conceived a plan by which all the wretchedness of earth, moral and

physical, might be done away, and the bliss of the millennium at once

accomplished. But, the incredulity of mankind debarring him from

action, he was smitten with as much grief as if the whole mass of woe

which he was denied the opportunity to remedy were crowded into his own

bosom. A plain old man in black attracted much of the company’s notice,

on the supposition that he was no other than Father Miller, who, it

seemed, had given himself up to despair at the tedious delay of the

final conflagration.

Then there was a man distinguished for native

pride and obstinacy, who, a little while before, had possessed immense

wealth, and held the control of a vast moneyed interest which he had

wielded in the same spirit as a despotic monarch would wield the power

of his empire, carrying on a tremendous moral warfare, the roar and

tremor of which was felt at every fireside in the land. At length came

a crushing ruin,—a total overthrow of fortune, power, and

character,—the effect of which on his imperious and, in many respects,

noble and lofty nature might have entitled him to a place, not merely

at our festival, but among the peers of Pandemonium.

There was a modern philanthropist, who had become so deeply sensible of

the calamities of thousands and millions of his fellow-creatures, and

of the impracticableness of any general measures for their relief, that

he had no heart to do what little good lay immediately within his

power, but contented himself with being miserable for sympathy. Near

him sat a gentleman in a predicament hitherto unprecedented, but of

which the present epoch probably affords numerous examples. Ever since

he was of capacity to read a newspaper, this person had prided himself

on his consistent adherence to one political party, but, in the

confusion of these latter days, had got bewildered and knew not

whereabouts his party was. This wretched condition, so morally desolate

and disheartening to a man who has long accustomed himself to merge his

individuality in the mass of a great body, can only be conceived by

such as have experienced it. His next companion was a popular orator

who had lost his voice, and—as it was pretty much all that he had to

lose—had fallen into a state of hopeless melancholy. The table was

likewise graced by two of the gentler sex,—one, a half-starved,

consumptive seamstress, the representative of thousands just as

wretched; the other, a woman of unemployed energy, who found herself in

the world with nothing to achieve, nothing to enjoy, and nothing even

to suffer. She had, therefore, driven herself to the verge of madness

by dark broodings over the wrongs of her sex, and its exclusion from a

proper field of action. The roll of guests being thus complete, a

side-table had been set for three or four disappointed office-seekers,

with hearts as sick as death, whom the stewards had admitted partly

because their calamities really entitled them to entrance here, and

partly that they were in especial need of a good dinner.

There was

likewise a homeless dog, with his tail between his legs, licking up the

crumbs and gnawing the fragments of the feast,—such a melancholy cur as

one sometimes sees about the streets without a master, and willing to

follow the first that will accept his service.

In their own way, these were as wretched a set of people as ever had

assembled at the festival. There they sat, with the veiled skeleton of

the founder holding aloft the cypress-wreath, at one end of the table,

and at the other, wrapped in furs, the withered figure of Gervayse

Hastings, stately, calm, and cold, impressing the company with awe, yet

so little interesting their sympathy that he might have vanished into

thin air without their once exclaiming, “Whither is he gone?”

“Sir,” said the philanthropist, addressing the old man, “you have been

so long a guest at this annual festival, and have thus been conversant

with so many varieties of human affliction, that, not improbably, you

have thence derived some great and important lessons. How blessed were

your lot could you reveal a secret by which all this mass of woe might

be removed!”

“I know of but one misfortune,” answered Gervayse Hastings, quietly,

“and that is my own.”

“Your own!” rejoined the philanthropist. “And looking back on your

serene and prosperous life, how can you claim to be the sole

unfortunate of the human race?”

“You will not understand it,” replied Gervayse Hastings, feebly, and

with a singular inefficiency of pronunciation, and sometimes putting

one word for another. “None have understood it, not even those who

experience the like. It is a chillness, a want of earnestness, a

feeling as if what should be my heart were a thing of vapor, a haunting

perception of unreality! Thus seeming to possess all that other men

have, all that men aim at, I have really possessed nothing, neither joy

nor griefs. All things, all persons,—as was truly said to me at this

table long and long ago,—have been like shadows flickering on the wall.

It was so with my wife and children, with those who seemed my friends:

it is so with yourselves, whom I see now before one. Neither have I

myself any real existence, but am a shadow like the rest.”

“And how is it with your views of a future life?” inquired the

speculative clergyman.

“Worse than with you,” said the old man, in a hollow and feeble tone;

“for I cannot conceive it earnestly enough to feel either hope or fear.

Mine,—mine is the wretchedness! This cold heart,—this unreal life! Ah!

it grows colder still.

It so chanced that at this juncture the decayed ligaments of the

skeleton gave way, and the dry hones fell together in a heap, thus

causing the dusty wreath of cypress to drop upon the table. The

attention of the company being thus diverted for a single instant from

Gervayse Hastings, they perceived, on turning again towards him, that

the old man had undergone a change. His shadow had ceased to flicker on

the wall.

“Well, Rosina, what is your criticism?” asked Roderick, as he rolled up

the manuscript.

“Frankly, your success is by no means complete,” replied she. “It is

true, I have an idea of the character you endeavor to describe; but it

is rather by dint of my own thought than your expression.”

“That is unavoidable,” observed the sculptor, “because the

characteristics are all negative. If Gervayse Hastings could have

imbibed one human grief at the gloomy banquet, the task of describing

him would have been infinitely easier. Of such persons—and we do meet

with these moral monsters now and then—it is difficult to conceive how

they came to exist here, or what there is in them capable of existence

hereafter. They seem to be on the outside of everything; and nothing

wearies the soul more than an attempt to comprehend them within its

grasp.”

Chapter 17.

DROWNE’S WOODEN IMAGE.

One sunshiny morning, in the good old times of the town of Boston, a

young carver in wood, well known by the name of Drowne, stood

contemplating a large oaken log, which it was his purpose to convert

into the figure-head of a vessel. And while he discussed within his own

mind what sort of shape or similitude it were well to bestow upon this

excellent piece of timber, there came into Drowne’s workshop a certain

Captain Hunnewell, owner and commander of the good brig called the

Cynosure, which had just returned from her first voyage to Fayal.

“Ah! that will do, Drowne, that will do!” cried the jolly captain,

tapping the log with his rattan. “I bespeak this very piece of oak for

the figure-head of the Cynosure. She has shown herself the sweetest

craft that ever floated, and I mean to decorate her prow with the

handsomest image that the skill of man can cut out of timber. And,

Drowne, you are the fellow to execute it.”

“You give me more credit than I deserve, Captain Hunnewell,” said the

carver, modestly, yet as one conscious of eminence in his art. “But,

for the sake of the good brig, I stand ready to do my best.

And which

of these designs do you prefer? Here,”—pointing to a staring,

half-length figure, in a white wig and scarlet coat,—“here is an

excellent model, the likeness of our gracious king. Here is the valiant

Admiral Vernon. Or, if you prefer a female figure, what say you to

Britannia with the trident?”

“All very fine, Drowne; all very fine,” answered the mariner. “But as

nothing like the brig ever swam the ocean, so I am determined she shall

have such a figure-head as old Neptune never saw in his life. And what

is more, as there is a secret in the matter, you must pledge your

credit not to betray it.”

“Certainly,” said Drowne, marvelling, however, what possible mystery

there could be in reference to an affair so open, of necessity, to the

inspection of all the world as the figure-head of a vessel. “You may

depend, captain, on my being as secret as the nature of the case will

permit.”

Captain Hunnewell then took Drowne by the button, and communicated his

wishes in so low a tone that it would be unmannerly to repeat what was

evidently intended for the carver’s private ear. We shall, therefore,

take the opportunity to give the reader a few desirable particulars

about Drowne himself.

He was the first American who is known to have attempted—in a very

humble line, it is true—that art in which we can now reckon so many

names already distinguished, or rising to distinction. From his

earliest boyhood he had exhibited a knack—for it would be too proud a

word to call it genius—a knack, therefore, for the imitation of the

human figure in whatever material came most readily to hand. The snows

of a New England winter had often supplied him with a species of marble

as dazzingly white, at least, as the Parian or the Carrara, and if less

durable, yet sufficiently so to correspond with any claims to permanent

existence possessed by the boy’s frozen statues. Yet they won

admiration from maturer judges than his school-fellows, and were

indeed, remarkably clever, though destitute of the native warmth that

might have made the snow melt beneath his hand. As he advanced in life,

the young man adopted pine and oak as eligible materials for the

display of his skill, which now began to bring him a return of solid

silver as well as the empty praise that had been an apt reward enough

for his productions of evanescent snow. He became noted for carving

ornamental pump heads, and wooden urns for gate posts, and decorations,

more grotesque than fanciful, for mantelpieces.

No apothecary would

have deemed himself in the way of obtaining custom without setting up a

gilded mortar, if not a head of Galen or Hippocrates, from the skilful

hand of Drowne.

But the great scope of his business lay in the manufacture of

figure-heads for vessels. Whether it were the monarch himself, or some

famous British admiral or general, or the governor of the province, or

perchance the favorite daughter of the ship-owner, there the image

stood above the prow, decked out in gorgeous colors, magnificently

gilded, and staring the whole world out of countenance, as if from an

innate consciousness of its own superiority. These specimens of native

sculpture had crossed the sea in all directions, and been not ignobly

noticed among the crowded shipping of the Thames and wherever else the

hardy mariners of New England had pushed their adventures. It must be

confessed that a family likeness pervaded these respectable progeny of

Drowne’s skill; that the benign countenance of the king resembled those

of his subjects, and that Miss Peggy Hobart, the merchant’s daughter,

bore a remarkable similitude to Britannia, Victory, and other ladies of

the allegoric sisterhood; and, finally, that they all had a kind of

wooden aspect which proved an intimate relationship with the unshaped

blocks of timber in the carver’s workshop. But at least there was no

inconsiderable skill of hand, nor a deficiency of any attribute to

render them really works of art, except that deep quality, be it of

soul or intellect, which bestows life upon the lifeless and warmth upon

the cold, and which, had it been present, would have made Drowne’s

wooden image instinct with spirit.

The captain of the Cynosure had now finished his instructions.

“And Drowne,” said he, impressively, “you must lay aside all other

business and set about this forthwith. And as to the price, only do the

job in first-rate style, and you shall settle that point yourself.”

“Very well, captain,” answered the carver, who looked grave and

somewhat perplexed, yet had a sort of smile upon his visage; “depend

upon it, I’ll do my utmost to satisfy you.”

From that moment the men of taste about Long Wharf and the Town Dock

who were wont to show their love for the arts by frequent visits to

Drowne’s workshop, and admiration of his wooden images, began to be

sensible of a mystery in the carver’s conduct. Often he was absent in

the daytime.

Sometimes, as might be judged by gleams of light from the

shop windows, he was at work until a late hour of the evening; although

neither knock nor voice, on such occasions, could gain admittance for a

visitor, or elicit any word of response. Nothing remarkable, however,

was observed in the shop at those late hours when it was thrown open. A

fine piece of timber, indeed, which Drowne was known to have reserved

for some work of especial dignity, was seen to be gradually assuming

shape. What shape it was destined ultimately to take was a problem to

his friends and a point on which the carver himself preserved a rigid

silence. But day after day, though Drowne was seldom noticed in the act

of working upon it, this rude form began to be developed until it

became evident to all observers that a female figure was growing into

mimic life. At each new visit they beheld a larger pile of wooden chips

and a nearer approximation to something beautiful. It seemed as if the

hamadryad of the oak had sheltered herself from the unimaginative world

within the heart of her native tree, and that it was only necessary to

remove the strange shapelessness that had incrusted her, and reveal the

grace and loveliness of a divinity. Imperfect as the design, the

attitude, the costume, and especially the face of the image still

remained, there was already an effect that drew the eye from the wooden

cleverness of Drowne’s earlier productions and fixed it upon the

tantalizing mystery of this new project.

Copley, the celebrated painter, then a young man and a resident of

Boston, came one day to visit Drowne; for he had recognized so much of

moderate ability in the carver as to induce him, in the dearth of

professional sympathy, to cultivate his acquaintance. On entering the

shop, the artist glanced at the inflexible image of king, commander,

dame, and allegory, that stood around, on the best of which might have

been bestowed the questionable praise that it looked as if a living man

had here been changed to wood, and that not only the physical, but the

intellectual and spiritual part, partook of the stolid transformation.

But in not a single instance did it seem as if the wood were imbibing

the ethereal essence of humanity.

What a wide distinction is here! and

how far the slightest portion of the latter merit have outvalued the

utmost degree of the former!

“My friend Drowne;” said Copley, smiling to himself, but alluding to

the mechanical and wooden cleverness that so invariably distinguished

the images, “you are really a remarkable person! I have seldom met with

a man in your line of business that could do so much; for one other

touch might make this figure of General Wolfe, for instance, a

breathing and intelligent human creature.”

“You would have me think that you are praising me highly, Mr. Copley,”

answered Drowne, turning his back upon Wolfe’s image in apparent

disgust. “But there has come a light into my mind. I know what you know

as well, that the one touch which you speak of as deficient is the only

one that would be truly valuable, and that without it these works of

mine are no better than worthless abortions. There is the same

difference between them and the works of an inspired artist as between

a sign-post daub and one of your best pictures.”

“This is strange,” cried Copley, looking him in the face, which now, as

the painter fancied, had a singular depth of intelligence, though

hitherto it had not given him greatly the advantage over his own family

of wooden images. “What has come over you? How is it that, possessing

the idea which you have now uttered, you should produce only such works

as these?”

The carver smiled, but made no reply. Copley turned again to the

images, conceiving that the sense of deficiency which Drowne had just

expressed, and which is so rare in a merely mechanical character, must

surely imply a genius, the tokens of which had heretofore been

overlooked. But no; there was not a trace of it. He was about to

withdraw when his eyes chanced to fall upon a half-developed figure

which lay in a corner of the workshop, surrounded by scattered chips of

oak. It arrested him at once.

“What is here? Who has done this?” he broke out, after contemplating it

in speechless astonishment for an instant. “Here is the divine, the

lifegiving touch. What inspired hand is beckoning this wood to arise

and live? Whose work is this?”

“No man’s work,” replied Drowne. “The figure lies within that block of

oak, and it is my business to find it.

“Drowne,” said the true artist, grasping the carver fervently by the

hand, “you are a man of genius!”

As Copley departed, happening to glance backward from the threshold, he

beheld Drowne bending over the half-created shape, and stretching forth

his arms as if he would have embraced and drawn it to his heart; while,

had such a miracle been possible, his countenance expressed passion

enough to communicate warmth and sensibility to the lifeless oak.

“Strange enough!” said the artist to himself. “Who would have looked

for a modern Pygmalion in the person of a Yankee mechanic!”

As yet, the image was but vague in its outward presentment; so that, as

in the cloud shapes around the western sun, the observer rather felt,

or was led to imagine, than really saw what was intended by it. Day by

day, however, the work assumed greater precision, and settled its

irregular and misty outline into distincter grace and beauty. The

general design was now obvious to the common eye. It was a female

figure, in what appeared to be a foreign dress; the gown being laced

over the bosom, and opening in front so as to disclose a skirt or

petticoat, the folds and inequalities of which were admirably

represented in the oaken substance. She wore a hat of singular

gracefulness, and abundantly laden with flowers, such as never grew in

the rude soil of New England, but which, with all their fanciful

luxuriance, had a natural truth that it seemed impossible for the most

fertile imagination to have attained without copying from real

prototypes. There were several little appendages to this dress, such as

a fan, a pair of earrings, a chain about the neck, a watch in the

bosom, and a ring upon the finger, all of which would have been deemed

beneath the dignity of sculpture. They were put on, however, with as

much taste as a lovely woman might have shown in her attire, and could

therefore have shocked none but a judgment spoiled by artistic rules.

The face was still imperfect; but gradually, by a magic touch,

intelligence and sensibility brightened through the features, with all

the effect of light gleaming forth from within the solid oak. The face

became alive. It was a beautiful, though not precisely regular and

somewhat haughty aspect, but with a certain piquancy about the eyes and

mouth, which, of all expressions, would have seemed the most impossible

to throw over a wooden countenance. And now, so far as carving went,

this wonderful production was complete.

“Drowne,” said Copley, who had hardly missed a single day in his visits

to the carver’s workshop, “if this work were in marble it would make

you famous at once; nay, I would almost affirm that it would make an

era in the art. It is as ideal as an antique statue, and yet as real as

any lovely woman whom one meets at a fireside or in the street. But I

trust you do not mean to desecrate this exquisite creature with paint,

like those staring kings and admirals yonder?”

“Not paint her!” exclaimed Captain Hunnewell, who stood by; “not paint

the figure-head of the Cynosure! And what sort of a figure should I cut

in a foreign port with such an unpainted oaken stick as this over my

prow! She must, and she shall, be painted to the life, from the topmost

flower in her hat down to the silver spangles on her slippers.”

“Mr. Copley,” said Drowne, quietly, “I know nothing of marble statuary,

and nothing of the sculptor’s rules of art; but of this wooden image,

this work of my hands, this creature of my heart,”—and here his voice

faltered and choked in a very singular manner,—“of this—of her—I may

say that I know something. A well-spring of inward wisdom gushed within

me as I wrought upon the oak with my whole strength, and soul, and

faith. Let others do what they may with marble, and adopt what rules

they choose. If I can produce my desired effect by painted wood, those

rules are not for me, and I have a right to disregard them.”

“The very spirit of genius,” muttered Copley to himself. “How otherwise

should this carver feel himself entitled to transcend all rules, and

make me ashamed of quoting them?”

He looked earnestly at Drowne, and again saw that expression of human

love which, in a spiritual sense, as the artist could not help

imagining, was the secret of the life that had been breathed into this

block of wood.

The carver, still in the same secrecy that marked all his operations

upon this mysterious image, proceeded to paint the habiliments in their

proper colors, and the countenance with Nature’s red and white. When

all was finished he threw open his workshop, and admitted the towns

people to behold what he had done. Most persons, at their first

entrance, felt impelled to remove their hats, and pay such reverence as

was due to the richly-dressed and beautiful young lady who seemed to

stand in a corner of the room, with oaken chips and shavings scattered

at her feet. Then came a sensation of fear; as if, not being actually

human, yet so like humanity, she must therefore be something

preternatural.

There was, in truth, an indefinable air and expression

that might reasonably induce the query, Who and from what sphere this

daughter of the oak should be? The strange, rich flowers of Eden on her

head; the complexion, so much deeper and more brilliant than those of

our native beauties; the foreign, as it seemed, and fantastic garb, yet

not too fantastic to be worn decorously in the street; the

delicately-wrought embroidery of the skirt; the broad gold chain about

her neck; the curious ring upon her finger; the fan, so exquisitely

sculptured in open work, and painted to resemble pearl and ebony;—where

could Drowne, in his sober walk of life, have beheld the vision here so

matchlessly embodied! And then her face! In the dark eyes, and around

the voluptuous mouth, there played a look made up of pride, coquetry,

and a gleam of mirthfulness, which impressed Copley with the idea that

the image was secretly enjoying the perplexing admiration of himself

and other beholders.

“And will you,” said he to the carver, “permit this masterpiece to

become the figure-head of a vessel? Give the honest captain yonder

figure of Britannia—it will answer his purpose far better—and send this

fairy queen to England, where, for aught I know, it may bring you a

thousand pounds.”

“I have not wrought it for money,” said Drowne.

“What sort of a fellow is this!” thought Copley. “A Yankee, and throw

away the chance of making his fortune! He has gone mad; and thence has

come this gleam of genius.”

There was still further proof of Drowne’s lunacy, if credit were due to

the rumor that he had been seen kneeling at the feet of the oaken lady,

and gazing with a lover’s passionate ardor into the face that his own

hands had created. The bigots of the day hinted that it would be no

matter of surprise if an evil spirit were allowed to enter this

beautiful form, and seduce the carver to destruction.

The fame of the image spread far and wide. The inhabitants visited it

so universally, that after a few days of exhibition there was hardly an

old man or a child who had not become minutely familiar with its

aspect. Even had the story of Drowne’s wooden image ended here, its

celebrity might have been prolonged for many years by the reminiscences

of those who looked upon it in their childhood, and saw nothing else so

beautiful in after life.

But the town was now astounded by an event,

the narrative of which has formed itself into one of the most singular

legends that are yet to be met with in the traditionary chimney corners

of the New England metropolis, where old men and women sit dreaming of

the past, and wag their heads at the dreamers of the present and the

future.

One fine morning, just before the departure of the Cynosure on her

second voyage to Fayal, the commander of that gallant vessel was seen

to issue from his residence in Hanover Street. He was stylishly dressed

in a blue broadcloth coat, with gold lace at the seams and

button-holes, an embroidered scarlet waistcoat, a triangular hat, with

a loop and broad binding of gold, and wore a silver-hilted hanger at

his side. But the good captain might have been arrayed in the robes of

a prince or the rags of a beggar, without in either case attracting

notice, while obscured by such a companion as now leaned on his arm.

The people in the street started, rubbed their eyes, and either leaped

aside from their path, or stood as if transfixed to wood or marble in

astonishment.

“Do you see it?—do you see it?” cried one, with tremulous eagerness.

“It is the very same!”

“The same?” answered another, who had arrived in town only the night

before. “Who do you mean? I see only a sea-captain in his shoregoing

clothes, and a young lady in a foreign habit, with a bunch of beautiful

flowers in her hat. On my word, she is as fair and bright a damsel as

my eyes have looked on this many a day!”

“Yes; the same!—the very same!” repeated the other. “Drowne’s wooden

image has come to life!”

Here was a miracle indeed! Yet, illuminated by the sunshine, or

darkened by the alternate shade of the houses, and with its garments

fluttering lightly in the morning breeze, there passed the image along

the street. It was exactly and minutely the shape, the garb, and the

face which the towns-people had so recently thronged to see and admire.

Not a rich flower upon her head, not a single leaf, but had had its

prototype in Drowne’s wooden workmanship, although now their fragile

grace had become flexible, and was shaken by every footstep that the

wearer made. The broad gold chain upon the neck was identical with the

one represented on the image, and glistened with the motion imparted by

the rise and fall of the bosom which it decorated. A real diamond

sparkled on her finger.

In her right hand she bore a pearl and ebony

fan, which she flourished with a fantastic and bewitching coquetry,

that was likewise expressed in all her movements as well as in the

style of her beauty and the attire that so well harmonized with it. The

face with its brilliant depth of complexion had the same piquancy of

mirthful mischief that was fixed upon the countenance of the image, but

which was here varied and continually shifting, yet always essentially

the same, like the sunny gleam upon a bubbling fountain. On the whole,

there was something so airy and yet so real in the figure, and withal

so perfectly did it represent Drowne’s image, that people knew not

whether to suppose the magic wood etherealized into a spirit or warmed

and softened into an actual woman.

“One thing is certain,” muttered a Puritan of the old stamp, “Drowne

has sold himself to the devil; and doubtless this gay Captain Hunnewell

is a party to the bargain.”

“And I,” said a young man who overheard him, “would almost consent to

be the third victim, for the liberty of saluting those lovely lips.”

“And so would I,” said Copley, the painter, “for the privilege of

taking her picture.”

The image, or the apparition, whichever it might be, still escorted by

the bold captain, proceeded from Hanover Street through some of the

cross lanes that make this portion of the town so intricate, to Ann

Street, thence into Dock Square, and so downward to Drowne’s shop,

which stood just on the water’s edge. The crowd still followed,

gathering volume as it rolled along. Never had a modern miracle

occurred in such broad daylight, nor in the presence of such a

multitude of witnesses. The airy image, as if conscious that she was

the object of the murmurs and disturbance that swelled behind her,

appeared slightly vexed and flustered, yet still in a manner consistent

with the light vivacity and sportive mischief that were written in her

countenance. She was observed to flutter her fan with such vehement

rapidity that the elaborate delicacy of its workmanship gave way, and

it remained broken in her hand.

Arriving at Drowne’s door, while the captain threw it open, the

marvellous apparition paused an instant on the threshold, assuming the

very attitude of the image, and casting over the crowd that glance of

sunny coquetry which all remembered on the face of the oaken lady. She

and her cavalier then disappeared.

“Ah!” murmured the crowd, drawing a deep breath, as with one vast pair

of lungs.

“The world looks darker now that she has vanished,” said some of the

young men.

But the aged, whose recollections dated as far back as witch times,

shook their heads, and hinted that our forefathers would have thought

it a pious deed to burn the daughter of the oak with fire.

“If she be other than a bubble of the elements,” exclaimed Copley, “I

must look upon her face again.”

He accordingly entered the shop; and there, in her usual corner, stood

the image, gazing at him, as it might seem, with the very same

expression of mirthful mischief that had been the farewell look of the

apparition when, but a moment before, she turned her face towards the

crowd. The carver stood beside his creation mending the beautiful fan,

which by some accident was broken in her hand. But there was no longer

any motion in the lifelike image, nor any real woman in the workshop,

nor even the witchcraft of a sunny shadow, that might have deluded

people’s eyes as it flitted along the street. Captain Hunnewell, too,

had vanished. His hoarse sea-breezy tones, however, were audible on the

other side of a door that opened upon the water.

“Sit down in the stern sheets, my lady,” said the gallant captain.

“Come, bear a hand, you lubbers, and set us on board in the turning of

a minute-glass.”

And then was heard the stroke of oars.

“Drowne,” said Copley with a smile of intelligence, “you have been a

truly fortunate man. What painter or statuary ever had such a subject!

No wonder that she inspired a genius into you, and first created the

artist who afterwards created her image.”

Drowne looked at him with a visage that bore the traces of tears, but

from which the light of imagination and sensibility, so recently

illuminating it, had departed. He was again the mechanical carver that

he had been known to be all his lifetime.

“I hardly understand what you mean, Mr. Copley,” said he, putting his

hand to his brow. “This image! Can it have been my work? Well, I have

wrought it in a kind of dream; and now that I am broad awake I must set

about finishing yonder figure of Admiral Vernon.”

And forthwith he employed himself on the stolid countenance of one of

his wooden progeny, and completed it in his own mechanical style, from

which he was never known afterwards to deviate. He followed his

business industriously for many years, acquired a competence, and in

the latter part of his life attained to a dignified station in the

church, being remembered in records and traditions as Deacon Drowne,

the carver.

One of his productions, an Indian chief, gilded all over,

stood during the better part of a century on the cupola of the Province

House, bedazzling the eyes of those who looked upward, like an angel of

the sun. Another work of the good deacon’s hand—a reduced likeness of

his friend Captain Hunnewell, holding a telescope and quadrant—may be

seen to this day, at the corner of Broad and State streets, serving in

the useful capacity of sign to the shop of a nautical instrument maker.

We know not how to account for the inferiority of this quaint old

figure, as compared with the recorded excellence of the Oaken Lady,

unless on the supposition that in every human spirit there is

imagination, sensibility, creative power, genius, which, according to

circumstances, may either be developed in this world, or shrouded in a

mask of dulness until another state of being. To our friend Drowne

there came a brief season of excitement, kindled by love. It rendered

him a genius for that one occasion, but, quenched in disappointment,

left him again the mechanical carver in wood, without the power even of

appreciating the work that his own hands had wrought. Yet who can doubt

that the very highest state to which a human spirit can attain, in its

loftiest aspirations, is its truest and most natural state, and that

Drowne was more consistent with himself when he wrought the admirable

figure of the mysterious lady, than when he perpetrated a whole progeny

of blockheads?

There was a rumor in Boston, about this period, that a young Portuguese

lady of rank, on some occasion of political or domestic disquietude,

had fled from her home in Fayal and put herself under the protection of

Captain Hunnewell, on board of whose vessel, and at whose residence,

she was sheltered until a change of affairs. This fair stranger must

have been the original of Drowne’s Wooden Image.

Chapter 18.

THE INTELLIGENCE OFFICE.

Grave figure, with a pair of mysterious spectacles on his nose and a

pen behind his ear, was seated at a desk in the corner of a

metropolitan office. The apartment was fitted up with a counter, and

furnished with an oaken cabinet and a Chair or two, in simple and

business-like style. Around the walls were stuck advertisements of

articles lost, or articles wanted, or articles to be disposed of; in

one or another of which classes were comprehended nearly all the

Conveniences, or otherwise, that the imagination of man has contrived.

The interior of the room was thrown into shadow, partly by the tall

edifices that rose on the opposite side of the street, and partly by

the immense show-bills of blue and crimson paper that were expanded

over each of the three windows. Undisturbed by the tramp of feet, the

rattle of wheels, the hump of voices, the shout of the city crier, the

scream of the newsboys, and other tokens of the multitudinous life that

surged along in front of the office, the figure at the desk pored

diligently over a folio volume, of ledger-like size and aspect, He

looked like the spirit of a record—the soul of his own great volume

made visible in mortal shape.

But scarcely an instant elapsed without the appearance at the door of

some individual from the busy population whose vicinity was manifested

by so much buzz, and clatter, and outcry. Now, it was a thriving

mechanic in quest of a tenement that should come within his moderate

means of rent; now, a ruddy Irish girl from the banks of Killarney,

wandering from kitchen to kitchen of our land, while her heart still

hung in the peat-smoke of her native cottage; now, a single gentleman

looking out for economical board; and now—for this establishment

offered an epitome of worldly pursuits—it was a faded beauty inquiring

for her lost bloom; or Peter Schlemihl, for his lost shadow; or an

author of ten years’ standing, for his vanished reputation; or a moody

man, for yesterday’s sunshine.

At the next lifting of the latch there entered a person with his hat

awry upon his head, his clothes perversely ill-suited to his form, his

eyes staring in directions opposite to their intelligence, and a

certain odd unsuitableness pervading his whole figure. Wherever he

might chance to be, whether in palace or cottage, church or market, on

land or sea, or even at his own fireside, he must have worn the

characteristic expression of a man out of his right place.

“This,” inquired he, putting his question in the form of an

assertion,—“this is the Central Intelligence Office?”

“Even so,” answered the figure at the desk, turning another leaf of his

volume; he then looked the applicant in the face and said briefly,

“Your business?”

“I want,” said the latter, with tremulous earnestness, “a place!”

“A place! and of what nature?” asked the Intelligencer. “There are many

vacant, or soon to be so, some of which will probably suit, since they

range from that of a footman up to a seat at the council-board, or in

the cabinet, or a throne, or a presidential chair.

”

The stranger stood pondering before the desk with an unquiet,

dissatisfied air,—a dull, vague pain of heart, expressed by a slight

contortion of the brow,—an earnestness of glance, that asked and

expected, yet continually wavered, as if distrusting. In short, he

evidently wanted, not in a physical or intellectual sense, but with an

urgent moral necessity that is the hardest of all things to satisfy,

since it knows not its own object.

“Ah, you mistake me!” said he at length, with a gesture of nervous

impatience. “Either of the places you mention, indeed, might answer my

purpose; or, more probably, none of them. I want my place! my own

place! my true place in the world! my proper sphere! my thing to do,

which Nature intended me to perform when she fashioned me thus awry,

and which I have vainly sought all my lifetime! Whether it be a

footman’s duty or a king’s is of little consequence, so it be naturally

mine. Can you help me here?”

“I will enter your application,” answered the Intelligencer, at the

same time writing a few lines in his volume. “But to undertake such a

business, I tell you frankly, is quite apart from the ground covered by

my official duties. Ask for something specific, and it may doubtless be

negotiated for you, on your compliance with the conditions. But were I

to go further, I should have the whole population of the city upon my

shoulders; since far the greater proportion of them are, more or less,

in your predicament.”

The applicant sank into a fit of despondency, and passed out of the

door without again lifting his eyes; and, if he died of the

disappointment, he was probably buried in the wrong tomb, inasmuch as

the fatality of such people never deserts them, and, whether alive or

dead, they are invariably out of place.

Almost immediately another foot was heard on the threshold. A youth

entered hastily, and threw a glance around the office to ascertain

whether the man of intelligence was alone. He then approached close to

the desk, blushed like a maiden, and seemed at a loss how to broach his

business.

“You come upon an affair of the heart,” said the official personage,

looking into him through his mysterious spectacles. “State it in as few

words as may be.”

“You are right,” replied the youth. “I have a heart to dispose of.”

“You seek an exchange?” said the Intelligencer.

“Foolish youth, why not

be contented with your own?”

“Because,” exclaimed the young man, losing his embarrassment in a

passionate glow,—“because my heart burns me with an intolerable fire;

it tortures me all day long with yearnings for I know not what, and

feverish throbbings, and the pangs of a vague sorrow; and it awakens me

in the night-time with a quake, when there is nothing to be feared. I

cannot endure it any longer. It were wiser to throw away such a heart,

even if it brings me nothing in return.”

“O, very well,” said the man of office, making an entry in his volume.

“Your affair will be easily transacted. This species of brokerage makes

no inconsiderable part of my business; and there is always a large

assortment of the article to select from. Here, if I mistake not, comes

a pretty fair sample.”

Even as he spoke the door was gently and slowly thrust ajar, affording

a glimpse of the slender figure of a young girl, who, as she timidly

entered, seemed to bring the light and cheerfulness of the outer

atmosphere into the somewhat gloomy apartment. We know not her errand

there, nor can we reveal whether the young man gave up his heart into

her custody. If so, the arrangement was neither better nor worse than

in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, where the parallel sensibilities

of a similar age, importunate affections, and the easy satisfaction of

characters not deeply conscious of themselves, supply the place of any

profounder sympathy.

Not always, however, was the agency of the passions and affections an

office of so little trouble. It happened, rarely, indeed, in proportion

to the cases that came under an ordinary rule, but still it did happen,

that a heart was occasionally brought hither of such exquisite

material, so delicately attempered, and so curiously wrought, that no

other heart could be found to match it. It might almost be considered a

misfortune, in a worldly point of view, to be the possessor of such a

diamond of the purest water; since in any reasonable probability it

could only be exchanged for an ordinary pebble, or a bit of cunningly

manufactured glass, or, at least, for a jewel of native richness, but

ill-set, or with some fatal flaw, or an earthy vein running through its

central lustre. To choose another figure, it is sad that hearts which

have their wellspring in the infinite, and contain inexhaustible

sympathies, should ever be doomed to pour themselves into shallow

vessels, and thus lavish their rich affections on the ground.

Strange

that the finer and deeper nature, whether in man or woman, while

possessed of every other delicate instinct, should so often lack that

most invaluable one of preserving itself front contamination with what

is of a baser kind! Sometimes, it is true, the spiritual fountain is

kept pure by a wisdom within itself, and sparkles into the light of

heaven without a stain from the earthy strata through which it had

gushed upward. And sometimes, even here on earth, the pure mingles with

the pure, and the inexhaustible is recompensed with the infinite. But

these miracles, though he should claim the credit of them, are far

beyond the scope of such a superficial agent in human affairs as the

figure in the mysterious spectacles.

Again the door was opened, admitting the bustle of the city with a

fresher reverberation into the Intelligence Office. Now entered a man

of woe-begone and downcast look; it was such an aspect as if he had

lost the very soul out of his body, and had traversed all the world

over, searching in the dust of the highways, and along the shady

footpaths, and beneath the leaves of the forest, and among the sands of

the sea-shore, in hopes to recover it again. He had bent an anxious

glance along the pavement of the street as he came hitherward; he

looked also in the angle of the doorstep, and upon the floor of the

room; and, finally, coming up to the Man of Intelligence, he gazed

through the inscrutable spectacles which the latter wore, as if the

lost treasure might be hidden within his eyes.

“I have lost—” he began; and then he paused.

“Yes,” said the Intelligencer, “I see that you have lost,—but what?”

“I have lost a precious jewel!” replied the unfortunate person, “the

like of which is not to be found among any prince’s treasures. While I

possessed it, the contemplation of it was my sole and sufficient

happiness. No price should have purchased it of me; but it has fallen

from my bosom where I wore it in my careless wanderings about the

city.”

After causing the stranger to describe the marks of his lost jewel, the

Intelligencer opened a drawer of the oaken cabinet which has been

mentioned as forming a part of the furniture of the room. Here were

deposited whatever articles had been picked up in the streets, until

the right owners should claim them. It was a strange and heterogeneous

collection.

Not the least remarkable part of it was a great number of

wedding-rings, each one of which had been riveted upon the finger with

holy vows, and all the mystic potency that the most solemn rites could

attain, but had, nevertheless, proved too slippery for the wearer’s

vigilance. The gold of some was worn thin, betokening the attrition of

years of wedlock; others, glittering from the jeweller’s shop, must

have been lost within the honeymoon. There were ivory tablets, the

leaves scribbled over with sentiments that had been the deepest truths

of the writer’s earlier years, but which were now quite obliterated

from his memory. So scrupulously were articles preserved in this

depository, that not even withered flowers were rejected; white roses,

and blush-roses, and moss-roses, fit emblems of virgin purity and

shamefacedness, which bad been lost or flung away, and trampled into

the pollution of the streets; locks of hair,—the golden and the glossy

dark,—the long tresses of woman and the crisp curls of man, signified

that lovers were now and then so heedless of the faith intrusted to

them as to drop its symbol from the treasure-place of the bosom. Many

of these things were imbued with perfumes, and perhaps a sweet scent

had departed from the lives of their former possessors ever since they

had so wilfully or negligently lost them. Here were gold pencil-cases,

little ruby hearts with golden arrows through them, bosom-pins, pieces

of coin, and small articles of every description, comprising nearly all

that have been lost since a long time ago. Most of them, doubtless, had

a history and a meaning, if there were time to search it out and room

to tell it. Whoever has missed anything valuable, whether out of his

heart, mind, or pocket, would do well to make inquiry at the Central

Intelligence Office.

And in the corner of one of the drawers of the oaken cabinet, after

considerable research, was found a great pearl, looking like the soul

of celestial purity, congealed and polished.

“There is my jewel! my very pearl!” cried the stranger, almost beside

himself with rapture. “It is mine! Give it me this moment! or I shall

perish!”

“I perceive,” said the Man of Intelligence, examining it more closely,

“that this is the Pearl of Great Price!”

“The very same,” answered the stranger. “Judge, then, of my misery at

losing it out of my bosom! Restore it to me! I must not live without it

an instant to longer.”

“Pardon me,” rejoined the Intelligencer, calmly, “you ask what is

beyond my duty.

This pearl, as you well know, is held upon a peculiar

tenure; and having once let it escape from your keeping, you have no

greater claim to it—nay, not so great—as any other person. I cannot

give it back.”

Nor could the entreaties of the miserable man—who saw before his eyes

the jewel of his life without the power to reclaim it—soften the heart

of this stern being, impassive to human sympathy, though exercising

such an apparent influence over human fortunes. Finally the loser of

the inestimable pearl clutched his hands among his hair, and ran madly

forth into the world, which was affrighted at his desperate looks.

There passed him on the doorstep a fashionable young gentleman, whose

business was to inquire for a damask rosebud, the gift of his

lady-love, which he had lost out of his buttonhole within a hour after

receiving it. So various were the errands of those who visited this

Central Office, where all human wishes seemed to be made known, and, so

far as destiny would allow, negotiated to their fulfilment.

The next that entered was a man beyond the middle age, bearing the look

of one who knew the world and his own course in it. He had just

alighted from a handsome private carriage, which had orders to wait in

the street while its owner transacted his business. This person came up

to the desk with a quick, determined step, and looked the Intelligencer

in the face with a resolute eye; though, at the same time, some secret

trouble gleamed from it in red and dusky light.

“I have an estate to dispose of,” said he, with a brevity that seemed

characteristic.

“Describe it,” said the Intelligencer.

The applicant proceeded to give the boundaries of his property, its

nature, comprising tillage, pasture, woodland, and pleasure-grounds, in

ample circuit; together with a mansion-house, in the construction of

which it had been his object to realize a castle in the air, hardening

its shadowy walls into granite, and rendering its visionary splendor

perceptible to the awakened eye. Judging from his description, it was

beautiful enough to vanish like a dream, yet substantial enough to

endure for centuries. He spoke, too, of the gorgeous furniture, the

refinements of upholstery, and all the luxurious artifices that

combined to render this a residence where life might flow onward in a

stream of golden days, undisturbed by the ruggedness which fate loves

to fling into it.

“I am a man of strong will,” said he, in conclusion; “and at my first

setting out in life, as a poor, unfriended youth, I resolved to make

myself the possessor of such a mansion and estate as this, together

with the abundant revenue necessary to uphold it. I have succeeded to

the extent of my utmost wish. And this is the estate which I have now

concluded to dispose of.”

“And your terms?” asked the Intelligencer, after taking down the

particulars with which the stranger had supplied him.

“Easy, abundantly easy!” answered the successful man, smiling, but with

a stern and almost frightful contraction of the brow, as if to quell an

inward pang. “I have been engaged in various sorts of business,—a

distiller, a trader to Africa, an East India merchant, a speculator in

the stocks,—and, in the course of these affairs, have contracted an

encumbrance of a certain nature. The purchaser of the estate shall

merely be required to assume this burden to himself.”

“I understand you,” said the Man of Intelligence, putting his pen

behind his ear. “I fear that no bargain can be negotiated on these

conditions. Very probably the next possessor may acquire the estate

with a similar encumbrance, but it will be of his own contracting, and

will not lighten your burden in the least.”

“And am I to live on,” fiercely exclaimed the stranger, “with the dirt

of these accursed acres and the granite of this infernal mansion

crushing down my soul? How, if I should turn the edifice into an

almshouse or a hospital, or tear it down and build a church?”

“You can at least make the experiment,” said the Intelligencer; “but

the whole matter is one which you must settle for yourself.”

The man of deplorable success withdrew, and got into his coach, which

rattled off lightly over the wooden pavements, though laden with the

weight of much land, a stately house, and ponderous heaps of gold, all

compressed into an evil conscience.

There now appeared many applicants for places; among the most

noteworthy of whom was a small, smoke-dried figure, who gave himself

out to be one of the bad spirits that had waited upon Dr. Faustus in

his laboratory. He pretended to show a certificate of character, which,

he averred, had been given him by that famous necromancer, and

countersigned by several masters whom he had subsequently served.

“I am afraid, my good friend,” observed the Intelligencer, “that your

chance of getting a service is but poor. Nowadays, men act the evil

spirit for themselves and their neighbors, and play the part more

effectually than ninety-nine out of a hundred of your fraternity.

”

But, just as the poor fiend was assuming a vaporous consistency, being

about to vanish through the floor in sad disappointment and chagrin,

the editor of a political newspaper chanced to enter the office in

quest of a scribbler of party paragraphs. The former servant of Dr.

Faustus, with some misgivings as to his sufficiency of venom, was

allowed to try his hand in this capacity. Next appeared, likewise

seeking a service, the mysterious man in Red, who had aided Bonaparte

in his ascent to imperial power. He was examined as to his

qualifications by an aspiring politician, but finally rejected, as

lacking familiarity with the cunning tactics of the present day.

People continued to succeed each other with as much briskness as if

everybody turned aside, out of the roar and tumult of the city, to

record here some want, or superfluity, or desire. Some had goods or

possessions, of which they wished to negotiate the sale. A China

merchant had lost his health by a long residence in that wasting

climate. He very liberally offered his disease, and his wealth along

with it, to any physician who would rid him of both together. A soldier

offered his wreath of laurels for as good a leg as that which it had

cost him on the battle-field. One poor weary wretch desired nothing but

to be accommodated with any creditable method of laying down his life;

for misfortune and pecuniary troubles had so subdued his spirits that

he could no longer conceive the possibility of happiness, nor had the

heart to try for it. Nevertheless, happening to, overhear some

conversation in the Intelligence Office respecting wealth to be rapidly

accumulated by a certain mode of speculation, he resolved to live out

this one other experiment of better fortune. Many persons desired to

exchange their youthful vices for others better suited to the gravity

of advancing age; a few, we are glad to say, made earnest, efforts to

exchange vice for virtue, and, hard as the bargain was, succeeded in

effecting it. But it was remarkable that what all were the least

willing to give up, even on the most advantageous terms, were the

habits, the oddities, the characteristic traits, the little ridiculous

indulgences, somewhere between faults and follies, of which nobody but

themselves could understand the fascination.

The great folio, in which the Man of Intelligence recorded all these

freaks of idle hearts, and aspirations of deep hearts, and desperate

longings of miserable hearts, and evil prayers of perverted hearts,

would be curious reading were it possible to obtain it for publication.

Human character in its individual developments-human nature in the

mass—may best be studied in its wishes; and this was the record of them

all. There was an endless diversity of mode and circumstance, yet

withal such a similarity in the real groundwork, that any one page of

the volume-whether written in the days before the Flood, or the

yesterday that is just gone by, or to be written on the morrow that is

close at hand, or a thousand ages hence—might serve as a specimen of

the whole. Not but that there were wild sallies of fantasy that could

scarcely occur to more than one man’s brain, whether reasonable or

lunatic. The strangest wishes—yet most incident to men who had gone

deep into scientific pursuits, and attained a high intellectual stage,

though not the loftiest—were, to contend with Nature, and wrest from

her some secret, or some power, which she had seen fit to withhold from

mortal grasp. She loves to delude her aspiring students, and mock them

with mysteries that seem but just beyond their utmost reach. To concoct

new minerals, to produce new forms of vegetable life, to create an

insect, if nothing higher in the living scale, is a sort of wish that

has often revelled in the breast of a man of science. An astronomer,

who lived far more among the distant worlds of space than in this lower

sphere, recorded a wish to behold the opposite side of the moon, which,

unless the system of the firmament be reversed, she can never turn

towards the earth. On the same page of the volume was written the wish

of a little child to have the stars for playthings.

The most ordinary wish, that was written down with wearisome

recurrence, was, of course, for wealth, wealth, wealth, in sums from a

few shillings up to unreckonable thousands. But in reality this

often-repeated expression covered as many different desires. Wealth is

the golden essence of the outward world, embodying almost everything

that exists beyond the limits of the soul; and therefore it is the

natural yearning for the life in the midst of which we find ourselves,

and of which gold is the condition of enjoyment, that men abridge into

this general wish. Here and there, it is true, the volume testified to

some heart so perverted as to desire gold for its own sake. Many wished

for power; a strange desire indeed, since it is but another form of

slavery.

Old people wished for the delights of youth; a fop for a

fashionable coat; an idle reader, for a new novel; a versifier, for a

rhyme to some stubborn word; a painter, for Titian’s secret of

coloring; a prince, for a cottage; a republican, for a kingdom and a

palace; a libertine, for his neighbor’s wife; a man of palate, for

green peas; and a poor man, for a crust of bread. The ambitious desires

of public men, elsewhere so craftily concealed, were here expressed

openly and boldly, side by side with the unselfish wishes of the

philanthropist for the welfare of the race, so beautiful, so

comforting, in contrast with the egotism that continually weighed self

against the world. Into the darker secrets of the Book of Wishes we

will not penetrate.

It would be an instructive employment for a student of mankind,

perusing this volume carefully and comparing its records with men’s

perfected designs, as expressed in their deeds and daily life, to

ascertain how far the one accorded with the other. Undoubtedly, in most

cases, the correspondence would be found remote. The holy and generous

wish, that rises like incense from a pure heart towards heaven, often

lavishes its sweet perfume on the blast of evil times. The foul,

selfish, murderous wish, that steams forth from a corrupted heart,

often passes into the spiritual atmosphere without being concreted into

an earthly deed. Yet this volume is probably truer, as a representation

of the human heart, than is the living drama of action as it evolves

around us. There is more of good and more of evil in it; more redeeming

points of the bad and more errors of the virtuous; higher upsoarings,

and baser degradation of the soul; in short, a more perplexing

amalgamation of vice and virtue than we witness in the outward world.

Decency and external conscience often produce a far fairer outside than

is warranted by the stains within. And be it owned, oil the other hand,

that a man seldom repeats to his nearest friend, any more than he

realizes in act, the purest wishes, which, at some blessed time or

other, have arisen from the depths of his nature and witnessed for him

in this volume. Yet there is enough on every leaf to make the good man

shudder for his own wild and idle wishes, as well as for the sinner,

whose whole life is the incarnation of a wicked desire.

But again the door is opened, and we hear the tumultuous stir of the

world,—a deep and awful sound, expressing in another form some portion

of what is written in the volume that lies before the Man of

Intelligence.

A grandfatherly personage tottered hastily into the

office, with such an earnestness in his infirm alacrity that his white

hair floated backward as he hurried up to the desk, while his dim eyes

caught a momentary lustre from his vehemence of purpose. This venerable

figure explained that he was in search of To-morrow.

“I have spent all my life in pursuit of it,” added the sage old

gentleman, “being assured that To-morrow has some vast benefit or other

in store for me. But I am now getting a little in years, and must make

haste; for, unless I overtake To-morrow soon, I begin to be afraid it

will finally escape me.”

“This fugitive To-morrow, my venerable friend,” said the Man of

Intelligence, “is a stray child of Time, and is flying from his father

into the region of the infinite. Continue your pursuit, and you will

doubtless come up with him; but as to the earthly gifts which you

expect, he has scattered them all among a throng of Yesterdays.”

Obliged to content himself with this enigmatical response, the

grandsire hastened forth with a quick clatter of his staff upon the

floor; and, as he disappeared, a little boy scampered through the door

in chase of a butterfly which had got astray amid the barren sunshine

of the city. Had the old gentleman been shrewder, he might have

detected To-morrow under the semblance of that gaudy insect. The golden

butterfly glistened through the shadowy apartment, and brushed its

wings against the Book of Wishes, and fluttered forth again with the

child still in pursuit.

A man now entered, in neglected attire, with the aspect of a thinker,

but somewhat too rough-hewn and brawny for a scholar. His face was full

of sturdy vigor, with some finer and keener attribute beneath. Though

harsh at first, it was tempered with the glow of a large, warm heart,

which had force enough to heat his powerful intellect through and

through. He advanced to the Intelligencer and looked at him with a

glance of such stern sincerity that perhaps few secrets were beyond its

scope.

“I seek for Truth,” said he.

“It is precisely the most rare pursuit that has ever come under my

cognizance,” replied the Intelligencer, as he made the new inscription

in his volume. “Most men seek to impose some cunning falsehood upon

themselves for truth. But I can lend no help to your researches. You

must achieve the miracle for yourself. At some fortunate moment you may

find Truth at your side, or perhaps she may be mistily discerned far in

advance, or possibly behind you.

“Not behind me,” said the seeker; “for I have left nothing on my track

without a thorough investigation. She flits before me, passing now

through a naked solitude, and now mingling with the throng of a popular

assembly, and now writing with the pen of a French philosopher, and now

standing at the altar of an old cathedral, in the guise of a Catholic

priest, performing the high mass. O weary search! But I must not

falter; and surely my heart-deep quest of Truth shall avail at last.”

He paused and fixed his eyes upon the Intelligencer with a depth of

investigation that seemed to hold commerce with the inner nature of

this being, wholly regardless of his external development.

“And what are you?” said he. “It will not satisfy me to point to this

fantastic show of an Intelligence Office and this mockery of business.

Tell me what is beneath it, and what your real agency in life and your

influence upon mankind.”

“Yours is a mind,” answered the Man of Intelligence, “before which the

forms and fantasies that conceal the inner idea from the multitude

vanish at once and leave the naked reality beneath. Know, then, the

secret. My agency in worldly action, my connection with the press, and

tumult, and intermingling, and development of human affairs, is merely

delusive. The desire of man’s heart does for him whatever I seem to do.

I am no minister of action, but the Recording Spirit.”

What further secrets were then spoken remains a mystery, inasmuch as

the roar of the city, the bustle of human business, the outcry of the

jostling masses, the rush and tumult of man’s life, in its noisy and

brief career, arose so high that it drowned the words of these two

talkers; and whether they stood talking in the moon, or in Vanity Fair,

or in a city of this actual world, is more than I can say.

Chapter 19.

ROGER MALVIN’S BURIAL.

One of the few incidents of Indian warfare naturally susceptible of the

moonlight of romance was that expedition undertaken for the defence of

the frontiers in the year 1725, which resulted in the well-remembered

“Lovell’s Fight.” Imagination, by casting certain circumstances

judicially into the shade, may see much to admire in the heroism of a

little band who gave battle to twice their number in the heart of the

enemy’s country. The open bravery displayed by both parties was in

accordance with civilized ideas of valor; and chivalry itself might not

blush to record the deeds of one or two individuals.

The battle, though

so fatal to those who fought, was not unfortunate in its consequences

to the country; for it broke the strength of a tribe and conduced to

the peace which subsisted during several ensuing years. History and

tradition are unusually minute in their memorials of their affair; and

the captain of a scouting party of frontier men has acquired as actual

a military renown as many a victorious leader of thousands. Some of the

incidents contained in the following pages will be recognized,

notwithstanding the substitution of fictitious names, by such as have

heard, from old men’s lips, the fate of the few combatants who were in

a condition to retreat after “Lovell’s Fight.”

The early sunbeams hovered cheerfully upon the tree-tops, beneath which

two weary and wounded men had stretched their limbs the night before.

Their bed of withered oak leaves was strewn upon the small level space,

at the foot of a rock, situated near the summit of one of the gentle

swells by which the face of the country is there diversified. The mass

of granite, rearing its smooth, flat surface fifteen or twenty feet

above their heads, was not unlike a gigantic gravestone, upon which the

veins seemed to form an inscription in forgotten characters. On a tract

of several acres around this rock, oaks and other hard-wood trees had

supplied the place of the pines, which were the usual growth of the

land; and a young and vigorous sapling stood close beside the

travellers.

The severe wound of the elder man had probably deprived him of sleep;

for, so soon as the first ray of sunshine rested on the top of the

highest tree, he reared himself painfully from his recumbent posture

and sat erect. The deep lines of his countenance and the scattered gray

of his hair marked him as past the middle age; but his muscular frame

would, but for the effect of his wound, have been as capable of

sustaining fatigue as in the early vigor of life. Languor and

exhaustion now sat upon his haggard features; and the despairing glance

which he sent forward through the depths of the forest proved his own

conviction that his pilgrimage was at an end. He next turned his eyes

to the companion who reclined by his side. The youth—for he had

scarcely attained the years of manhood—lay, with his head upon his arm,

in the embrace of an unquiet sleep, which a thrill of pain from his

wounds seemed each moment on the point of breaking. His right hand

grasped a musket; and, to judge from the violent action of his

features, his slumbers were bringing back a vision of the conflict of

which he was one of the few survivors.

A shout deep and loud in his

dreaming fancy—found its way in an imperfect murmur to his lips; and,

starting even at the slight sound of his own voice, he suddenly awoke.

The first act of reviving recollection was to make anxious inquiries

respecting the condition of his wounded fellow-traveller. The latter

shook his head.

“Reuben, my boy,” said he, “this rock beneath which we sit will serve

for an old hunter’s gravestone. There is many and many a long mile of

howling wilderness before us yet; nor would it avail me anything if the

smoke of my own chimney were but on the other side of that swell of

land. The Indian bullet was deadlier than I thought.”

“You are weary with our three days’ travel,” replied the youth, “and a

little longer rest will recruit you. Sit you here while I search the

woods for the herbs and roots that must be our sustenance; and, having

eaten, you shall lean on me, and we will turn our faces homeward. I

doubt not that, with my help, you can attain to some one of the

frontier garrisons.”

“There is not two days’ life in me, Reuben,” said the other, calmly,

“and I will no longer burden you with my useless body, when you can

scarcely support your own. Your wounds are deep and your strength is

failing fast; yet, if you hasten onward alone, you may be preserved.

For me there is no hope, and I will await death here.”

“If it must be so, I will remain and watch by you,” said Reuben,

resolutely.

“No, my son, no,” rejoined his companion. “Let the wish of a dying man

have weight with you; give me one grasp of your hand, and get you

hence. Think you that my last moments will be eased by the thought that

I leave you to die a more lingering death? I have loved you like a

father, Reuben; and at a time like this I should have something of a

father’s authority. I charge you to be gone that I may die in peace.”

“And because you have been a father to me, should I therefore leave you

to perish and to lie unburied in the wilderness?” exclaimed the youth.

“No; if your end be in truth approaching, I will watch by you and

receive your parting words. I will dig a grave here by the rock, in

which, if my weakness overcome me, we will rest together; or, if Heaven

gives me strength, I will seek my way home.

“In the cities and wherever men dwell,” replied the other, “they bury

their dead in the earth; they hide them from the sight of the living;

but here, where no step may pass perhaps for a hundred years, wherefore

should I not rest beneath the open sky, covered only by the oak leaves

when the autumn winds shall strew them? And for a monument, here is

this gray rock, on which my dying hand shall carve the name of Roger

Malvin, and the traveller in days to come will know that here sleeps a

hunter and a warrior. Tarry not, then, for a folly like this, but

hasten away, if not for your own sake, for hers who will else be

desolate.”

Malvin spoke the last few words in a faltering voice, and their effect

upon his companion was strongly visible. They reminded him that there

were other and less questionable duties than that of sharing the fate

of a man whom his death could not benefit. Nor can it be affirmed that

no selfish feeling strove to enter Reuben’s heart, though the

consciousness made him more earnestly resist his companion’s

entreaties.

“How terrible to wait the slow approach of death in this solitude!”

exclaimed he. “A brave man does not shrink in the battle; and, when

friends stand round the bed, even women may die composedly; but here—”

“I shall not shrink even here, Reuben Bourne,” interrupted Malvin. “I

am a man of no weak heart, and, if I were, there is a surer support

than that of earthly friends. You are young, and life is dear to you.

Your last moments will need comfort far more than mine; and when you

have laid me in the earth, and are alone, and night is settling on the

forest, you will feel all the bitterness of the death that may now be

escaped. But I will urge no selfish motive to your generous nature.

Leave me for my sake, that, having said a prayer for your safety, I may

have space to settle my account undisturbed by worldly sorrows.”

“And your daughter,—how shall I dare to meet her eye?” exclaimed

Reuben. “She will ask the fate of her father, whose life I vowed to

defend with my own. Must I tell her that he travelled three days’ march

with me from the field of battle and that then I left him to perish in

the wilderness? Were it not better to lie down and die by your side

than to return safe and say this to Dorcas?”

“Tell my daughter,” said Roger Malvin, “that, though yourself sore

wounded, and weak, and weary, you led my tottering footsteps many a

mile, and left me only at my earnest entreaty, because I would not have

your blood upon my soul.

Tell her that through pain and danger you were

faithful, and that, if your lifeblood could have saved me, it would

have flowed to its last drop; and tell her that you will be something

dearer than a father, and that my blessing is with you both, and that

my dying eyes can see a long and pleasant path in which you will

journey together.”

As Malvin spoke he almost raised himself from the ground, and the

energy of his concluding words seemed to fill the wild and lonely

forest with a vision of happiness; but, when he sank exhausted upon his

bed of oak leaves, the light which had kindled in Reuben’s eye was

quenched. He felt as if it were both sin and folly to think of

happiness at such a moment. His companion watched his changing

countenance, and sought with generous art to wile him to his own good.

“Perhaps I deceive myself in regard to the time I have to live,” he

resumed. “It may be that, with speedy assistance, I might recover of my

wound. The foremost fugitives must, ere this, have carried tidings of

our fatal battle to the frontiers, and parties will be out to succor

those in like condition with ourselves. Should you meet one of these

and guide them hither, who can tell but that I may sit by my own

fireside again?”

A mournful smile strayed across the features of the dying man as he

insinuated that unfounded hope,—which, however, was not without its

effect on Reuben. No merely selfish motive, nor even the desolate

condition of Dorcas, could have induced him to desert his companion at

such a moment—but his wishes seized on the thought that Malvin’s life

might be preserved, and his sanguine nature heightened almost to

certainty the remote possibility of procuring human aid.

“Surely there is reason, weighty reason, to hope that friends are not

far distant,” he said, half aloud. “There fled one coward, unwounded,

in the beginning of the fight, and most probably he made good speed.

Every true man on the frontier would shoulder his musket at the news;

and, though no party may range so far into the woods as this, I shall

perhaps encounter them in one day’s march. Counsel me faithfully,” he

added, turning to Malvin, in distrust of his own motives. “Were your

situation mine, would you desert me while life remained?”

“It is now twenty years,” replied Roger Malvin,—sighing, however, as he

secretly acknowledged the wide dissimilarity between the two cases,—“it

is now twenty years since I escaped with one dear friend from Indian

captivity near Montreal.

We journeyed many days through the woods, till

at length overcome with hunger and weariness, my friend lay down and

besought me to leave him; for he knew that, if I remained, we both must

perish; and, with but little hope of obtaining succor, I heaped a

pillow of dry leaves beneath his head and hastened on.”

“And did you return in time to save him?” asked Reuben, hanging on

Malvin’s words as if they were to be prophetic of his own success.

“I did,” answered the other. “I came upon the camp of a hunting party

before sunset of the same day. I guided them to the spot where my

comrade was expecting death; and he is now a hale and hearty man upon

his own farm, far within the frontiers, while I lie wounded here in the

depths of the wilderness.”

This example, powerful in affecting Reuben’s decision, was aided,

unconsciously to himself, by the hidden strength of many another

motive. Roger Malvin perceived that the victory was nearly won.

“Now, go, my son, and Heaven prosper you!” he said. “Turn not back with

your friends when you meet them, lest your wounds and weariness

overcome you; but send hitherward two or three, that may be spared, to

search for me; and believe me, Reuben, my heart will be lighter with

every step you take towards home.” Yet there was, perhaps, a change

both in his countenance and voice as he spoke thus; for, after all, it

was a ghastly fate to be left expiring in the wilderness.

Reuben Bourne, but half convinced that he was acting rightly, at length

raised himself from the ground and prepared himself for his departure.

And first, though contrary to Malvin’s wishes, he collected a stock of

roots and herbs, which had been their only food during the last two

days. This useless supply he placed within reach of the dying man, for

whom, also, he swept together a bed of dry oak leaves. Then climbing to

the summit of the rock, which on one side was rough and broken, he bent

the oak sapling downward, and bound his handkerchief to the topmost

branch. This precaution was not unnecessary to direct any who might

come in search of Malvin; for every part of the rock, except its broad,

smooth front, was concealed at a little distance by the dense

undergrowth of the forest. The handkerchief had been the bandage of a

wound upon Reuben’s arm; and, as he bound it to the tree, he vowed by

the blood that stained it that he would return, either to save his

companion’s life or to lay his body in the grave. He then descended,

and stood, with downcast eyes, to receive Roger Malvin’s parting words.

The experience of the latter suggested much and minute advice

respecting the youth’s journey through the trackless forest. Upon this

subject he spoke with calm earnestness, as if he were sending Reuben to

the battle or the chase while he himself remained secure at home, and

not as if the human countenance that was about to leave him were the

last he would ever behold. But his firmness was shaken before he

concluded.

“Carry my blessing to Dorcas, and say that my last prayer shall be for

her and you. Bid her to have no hard thoughts because you left me

here,”—Reuben’s heart smote him,—“for that your life would not have

weighed with you if its sacrifice could have done me good. She will

marry you after she has mourned a little while for her father; and

Heaven grant you long and happy days, and may your children’s children

stand round your death bed! And, Reuben,” added he, as the weakness of

mortality made its way at last, “return, when your wounds are healed

and your weariness refreshed,—return to this wild rock, and lay my

bones in the grave, and say a prayer over them.”

An almost superstitious regard, arising perhaps from the customs of the

Indians, whose war was with the dead as well as the living, was paid by

the frontier inhabitants to the rites of sepulture; and there are many

instances of the sacrifice of life in the attempt to bury those who had

fallen by the “sword of the wilderness.” Reuben, therefore, felt the

full importance of the promise which he most solemnly made to return

and perform Roger Malvin’s obsequies. It was remarkable that the

latter, speaking his whole heart in his parting words, no longer

endeavored to persuade the youth that even the speediest succor might

avail to the preservation of his life. Reuben was internally convinced

that he should see Malvin’s living face no more. His generous nature

would fain have delayed him, at whatever risk, till the dying scene

were past; but the desire of existence and the hope of happiness had

strengthened in his heart, and he was unable to resist them.

“It is enough,” said Roger Malvin, having listened to Reuben’s promise.

“Go, and God speed you!”

The youth pressed his hand in silence, turned, and was departing. His

slow and faltering steps, however, had borne him but a little way

before Malvin’s voice recalled him.

“Reuben, Reuben,” said he, faintly; and Reuben returned and knelt down

by the dying man.

“Raise me, and let me lean against the rock,” was his last request. “My

face will be turned towards home, and I shall see you a moment longer

as you pass among the trees.

”

Reuben, having made the desired alteration in his companion’s posture,

again began his solitary pilgrimage. He walked more hastily at first

than was consistent with his strength; for a sort of guilty feeling,

which sometimes torments men in their most justifiable acts, caused him

to seek concealment from Malvin’s eyes; but after he had trodden far

upon the rustling forest leaves he crept back, impelled by a wild and

painful curiosity, and, sheltered by the earthy roots of an uptorn

tree, gazed earnestly at the desolate man. The morning sun was

unclouded, and the trees and shrubs imbibed the sweet air of the month

of May; yet there seemed a gloom on Nature’s face, as if she

sympathized with mortal pain and sorrow. Roger Malvin’s hands were

uplifted in a fervent prayer, some of the words of which stole through

the stillness of the woods and entered Reuben’s heart, torturing it

with an unutterable pang. They were the broken accents of a petition

for his own happiness and that of Dorcas; and, as the youth listened,

conscience, or something in its similitude, pleaded strongly with him

to return and lie down again by the rock. He felt how hard was the doom

of the kind and generous being whom he had deserted in his extremity.

Death would come like the slow approach of a corpse, stealing gradually

towards him through the forest, and showing its ghastly and motionless

features from behind a nearer and yet a nearer tree. But such must have

been Reuben’s own fate had he tarried another sunset; and who shall

impute blame to him if he shrink from so useless a sacrifice? As he

gave a parting look, a breeze waved the little banner upon the sapling

oak and reminded Reuben of his vow.

Many circumstances combined to retard the wounded traveller in his way

to the frontiers. On the second day the clouds, gathering densely over

the sky, precluded the possibility of regulating his course by the

position of the sun; and he knew not but that every effort of his

almost exhausted strength was removing him farther from the home he

sought. His scanty sustenance was supplied by the berries and other

spontaneous products of the forest. Herds of deer, it is true,

sometimes bounded past him, and partridges frequently whirred up before

his footsteps; but his ammunition had been expended in the fight, and

he had no means of slaying them. His wounds, irritated by the constant

exertion in which lay the only hope of life, wore away his strength and

at intervals confused his reason.

But, even in the wanderings of

intellect, Reuben’s young heart clung strongly to existence; and it was

only through absolute incapacity of motion that he at last sank down

beneath a tree, compelled there to await death.

In this situation he was discovered by a party who, upon the first

intelligence of the fight, had been despatched to the relief of the

survivors. They conveyed him to the nearest settlement, which chanced

to be that of his own residence.

Dorcas, in the simplicity of the olden time, watched by the bedside of

her wounded lover, and administered all those comforts that are in the

sole gift of woman’s heart and hand. During several days Reuben’s

recollection strayed drowsily among the perils and hardships through

which he had passed, and he was incapable of returning definite answers

to the inquiries with which many were eager to harass him. No authentic

particulars of the battle had yet been circulated; nor could mothers,

wives, and children tell whether their loved ones were detained by

captivity or by the stronger chain of death. Dorcas nourished her

apprehensions in silence till one afternoon when Reuben awoke from an

unquiet sleep, and seemed to recognize her more perfectly than at any

previous time. She saw that his intellect had become composed, and she

could no longer restrain her filial anxiety.

“My father, Reuben?” she began; but the change in her lover’s

countenance made her pause.

The youth shrank as if with a bitter pain, and the blood gushed vividly

into his wan and hollow cheeks. His first impulse was to cover his

face; but, apparently with a desperate effort, he half raised himself

and spoke vehemently, defending himself against an imaginary

accusation.

“Your father was sore wounded in the battle, Dorcas; and he bade me not

burden myself with him, but only to lead him to the lakeside, that he

might quench his thirst and die. But I would not desert the old man in

his extremity, and, though bleeding myself, I supported him; I gave him

half my strength, and led him away with me. For three days we journeyed

on together, and your father was sustained beyond my hopes, but,

awaking at sunrise on the fourth day, I found him faint and exhausted;

he was unable to proceed; his life had ebbed away fast; and—”

“He died!” exclaimed Dorcas, faintly.

Reuben felt it impossible to acknowledge that his selfish love of life

had hurried him away before her father’s fate was decided. He spoke

not; he only bowed his head; and, between shame and exhaustion, sank

back and hid his face in the pillow.

Dorcas wept when her fears were

thus confirmed; but the shock, as it had been long anticipated, was on

that account the less violent.

“You dug a grave for my poor father in the wilderness, Reuben?” was the

question by which her filial piety manifested itself.

“My hands were weak; but I did what I could,” replied the youth in a

smothered tone. “There stands a noble tombstone above his head; and I

would to Heaven I slept as soundly as he!”

Dorcas, perceiving the wildness of his latter words, inquired no

further at the time; but her heart found ease in the thought that Roger

Malvin had not lacked such funeral rites as it was possible to bestow.

The tale of Reuben’s courage and fidelity lost nothing when she

communicated it to her friends; and the poor youth, tottering from his

sick chamber to breathe the sunny air, experienced from every tongue

the miserable and humiliating torture of unmerited praise. All

acknowledged that he might worthily demand the hand of the fair maiden

to whose father he had been “faithful unto death;” and, as my tale is

not of love, it shall suffice to say that in the space of a few months

Reuben became the husband of Dorcas Malvin. During the marriage

ceremony the bride was covered with blushes, but the bridegroom’s face

was pale.

There was now in the breast of Reuben Bourne an incommunicable

thought—something which he was to conceal most heedfully from her whom

he most loved and trusted. He regretted, deeply and bitterly, the moral

cowardice that had restrained his words when he was about to disclose

the truth to Dorcas; but pride, the fear of losing her affection, the

dread of universal scorn, forbade him to rectify this falsehood. He

felt that for leaving Roger Malvin he deserved no censure. His

presence, the gratuitous sacrifice of his own life, would have added

only another and a needless agony to the last moments of the dying man;

but concealment had imparted to a justifiable act much of the secret

effect of guilt; and Reuben, while reason told him that he had done

right, experienced in no small degree the mental horrors which punish

the perpetrator of undiscovered crime. By a certain association of

ideas, he at times almost imagined himself a murderer. For years, also,

a thought would occasionally recur, which, though he perceived all its

folly and extravagance, he had not power to banish from his mind. It

was a haunting and torturing fancy that his father-in-law was yet

sitting at the foot of the rock, on the withered forest leaves, alive,

and awaiting his pledged assistance.

These mental deceptions, however,

came and went, nor did he ever mistake them for realities: but in the

calmest and clearest moods of his mind he was conscious that he had a

deep vow unredeemed, and that an unburied corpse was calling to him out

of the wilderness. Yet such was the consequence of his prevarication

that he could not obey the call. It was now too late to require the

assistance of Roger Malvin’s friends in performing his long-deferred

sepulture; and superstitious fears, of which none were more susceptible

than the people of the outward settlements, forbade Reuben to go alone.

Neither did he know where in the pathless and illimitable forest to

seek that smooth and lettered rock at the base of which the body lay:

his remembrance of every portion of his travel thence was indistinct,

and the latter part had left no impression upon his mind. There was,

however, a continual impulse, a voice audible only to himself,

commanding him to go forth and redeem his vow; and he had a strange

impression that, were he to make the trial, he would be led straight to

Malvin’s bones. But year after year that summons, unheard but felt, was

disobeyed. His one secret thought became like a chain binding down his

spirit and like a serpent gnawing into his heart; and he was

transformed into a sad and downcast yet irritable man.

In the course of a few years after their marriage changes began to be

visible in the external prosperity of Reuben and Dorcas. The only

riches of the former had been his stout heart and strong arm; but the

latter, her father’s sole heiress, had made her husband master of a

farm, under older cultivation, larger, and better stocked than most of

the frontier establishments. Reuben Bourne, however, was a neglectful

husbandman; and, while the lands of the other settlers became annually

more fruitful, his deteriorated in the same proportion. The

discouragements to agriculture were greatly lessened by the cessation

of Indian war, during which men held the plough in one hand and the

musket in the other, and were fortunate if the products of their

dangerous labor were not destroyed, either in the field or in the barn,

by the savage enemy. But Reuben did not profit by the altered condition

of the country; nor can it be denied that his intervals of industrious

attention to his affairs were but scantily rewarded with success. The

irritability by which he had recently become distinguished was another

cause of his declining prosperity, as it occasioned frequent quarrels

in his unavoidable intercourse with the neighboring settlers.

The

results of these were innumerable lawsuits; for the people of New

England, in the earliest stages and wildest circumstances of the

country, adopted, whenever attainable, the legal mode of deciding their

differences. To be brief, the world did not go well with Reuben Bourne;

and, though not till many years after his marriage, he was finally a

ruined man, with but one remaining expedient against the evil fate that

had pursued him. He was to throw sunlight into some deep recess of the

forest, and seek subsistence from the virgin bosom of the wilderness.

The only child of Reuben and Dorcas was a son, now arrived at the age

of fifteen years, beautiful in youth, and giving promise of a glorious

manhood. He was peculiarly qualified for, and already began to excel

in, the wild accomplishments of frontier life. His foot was fleet, his

aim true, his apprehension quick, his heart glad and high; and all who

anticipated the return of Indian war spoke of Cyrus Bourne as a future

leader in the land. The boy was loved by his father with a deep and

silent strength, as if whatever was good and happy in his own nature

had been transferred to his child, carrying his affections with it.

Even Dorcas, though loving and beloved, was far less dear to him; for

Reuben’s secret thoughts and insulated emotions had gradually made him

a selfish man, and he could no longer love deeply except where he saw

or imagined some reflection or likeness of his own mind. In Cyrus he

recognized what he had himself been in other days; and at intervals he

seemed to partake of the boy’s spirit, and to be revived with a fresh

and happy life. Reuben was accompanied by his son in the expedition,

for the purpose of selecting a tract of land and felling and burning

the timber, which necessarily preceded the removal of the household

gods. Two months of autumn were thus occupied, after which Reuben

Bourne and his young hunter returned to spend their last winter in the

settlements.

It was early in the month of May that the little family snapped asunder

whatever tendrils of affections had clung to inanimate objects, and

bade farewell to the few who, in the blight of fortune, called

themselves their friends. The sadness of the parting moment had, to

each of the pilgrims, its peculiar alleviations. Reuben, a moody man,

and misanthropic because unhappy, strode onward with his usual stern

brow and downcast eye, feeling few regrets and disdaining to

acknowledge any.

Dorcas, while she wept abundantly over the broken ties

by which her simple and affectionate nature had bound itself to

everything, felt that the inhabitants of her inmost heart moved on with

her, and that all else would be supplied wherever she might go. And the

boy dashed one tear-drop from his eye, and thought of the adventurous

pleasures of the untrodden forest.

Oh, who, in the enthusiasm of a daydream, has not wished that he were a

wanderer in a world of summer wilderness, with one fair and gentle

being hanging lightly on his arm? In youth his free and exulting step

would know no barrier but the rolling ocean or the snow-topped

mountains; calmer manhood would choose a home where Nature had strewn a

double wealth in the vale of some transparent stream; and when hoary

age, after long, long years of that pure life, stole on and found him

there, it would find him the father of a race, the patriarch of a

people, the founder of a mighty nation yet to be. When death, like the

sweet sleep which we welcome after a day of happiness, came over him,

his far descendants would mourn over the venerated dust. Enveloped by

tradition in mysterious attributes, the men of future generations would

call him godlike; and remote posterity would see him standing, dimly

glorious, far up the valley of a hundred centuries.

The tangled and gloomy forest through which the personages of my tale

were wandering differed widely from the dreamer’s land of fantasy; yet

there was something in their way of life that Nature asserted as her

own, and the gnawing cares which went with them from the world were all

that now obstructed their happiness. One stout and shaggy steed, the

bearer of all their wealth, did not shrink from the added weight of

Dorcas; although her hardy breeding sustained her, during the latter

part of each day’s journey, by her husband’s side. Reuben and his son,

their muskets on their shoulders and their axes slung behind them, kept

an unwearied pace, each watching with a hunter’s eye for the game that

supplied their food. When hunger bade, they halted and prepared their

meal on the bank of some unpolluted forest brook, which, as they knelt

down with thirsty lips to drink, murmured a sweet unwillingness, like a

maiden at love’s first kiss. They slept beneath a hut of branches, and

awoke at peep of light refreshed for the toils of another day.

Dorcas

and the boy went on joyously, and even Reuben’s spirit shone at

intervals with an outward gladness; but inwardly there was a cold cold

sorrow, which he compared to the snowdrifts lying deep in the glens and

hollows of the rivulets while the leaves were brightly green above.

Cyrus Bourne was sufficiently skilled in the travel of the woods to

observe that his father did not adhere to the course they had pursued

in their expedition of the preceding autumn. They were now keeping

farther to the north, striking out more directly from the settlements,

and into a region of which savage beasts and savage men were as yet the

sole possessors. The boy sometimes hinted his opinions upon the

subject, and Reuben listened attentively, and once or twice altered the

direction of their march in accordance with his son’s counsel; but,

having so done, he seemed ill at ease. His quick and wandering glances

were sent forward apparently in search of enemies lurking behind the

tree trunks, and, seeing nothing there, he would cast his eyes

backwards as if in fear of some pursuer. Cyrus, perceiving that his

father gradually resumed the old direction, forbore to interfere; nor,

though something began to weigh upon his heart, did his adventurous

nature permit him to regret the increased length and the mystery of

their way.

On the afternoon of the fifth day they halted, and made their simple

encampment nearly an hour before sunset. The face of the country, for

the last few miles, had been diversified by swells of land resembling

huge waves of a petrified sea; and in one of the corresponding hollows,

a wild and romantic spot, had the family reared their hut and kindled

their fire. There is something chilling, and yet heart-warming, in the

thought of these three, united by strong bands of love and insulated

from all that breathe beside. The dark and gloomy pines looked down

upon them, and, as the wind swept through their tops, a pitying sound

was heard in the forest; or did those old trees groan in fear that men

were come to lay the axe to their roots at last? Reuben and his son,

while Dorcas made ready their meal, proposed to wander out in search of

game, of which that day’s march had afforded no supply. The boy,

promising not to quit the vicinity of the encampment, bounded off with

a step as light and elastic as that of the deer he hoped to slay; while

his father, feeling a transient happiness as he gazed after him, was

about to pursue an opposite direction.

Dorcas in the meanwhile, had

seated herself near their fire of fallen branches upon the mossgrown

and mouldering trunk of a tree uprooted years before. Her employment,

diversified by an occasional glance at the pot, now beginning to simmer

over the blaze, was the perusal of the current year’s Massachusetts

Almanac, which, with the exception of an old black-letter Bible,

comprised all the literary wealth of the family. None pay a greater

regard to arbitrary divisions of time than those who are excluded from

society; and Dorcas mentioned, as if the information were of

importance, that it was now the twelfth of May. Her husband started.

“The twelfth of May! I should remember it well,” muttered he, while

many thoughts occasioned a momentary confusion in his mind. “Where am

I? Whither am I wandering? Where did I leave him?”

Dorcas, too well accustomed to her husband’s wayward moods to note any

peculiarity of demeanor, now laid aside the almanac and addressed him

in that mournful tone which the tender hearted appropriate to griefs

long cold and dead.

“It was near this time of the month, eighteen years ago, that my poor

father left this world for a better. He had a kind arm to hold his head

and a kind voice to cheer him, Reuben, in his last moments; and the

thought of the faithful care you took of him has comforted me many a

time since. Oh, death would have been awful to a solitary man in a wild

place like this!”

“Pray Heaven, Dorcas,” said Reuben, in a broken voice,—“pray Heaven

that neither of us three dies solitary and lies unburied in this

howling wilderness!” And he hastened away, leaving her to watch the

fire beneath the gloomy pines.

Reuben Bourne’s rapid pace gradually slackened as the pang,

unintentionally inflicted by the words of Dorcas, became less acute.

Many strange reflections, however, thronged upon him; and, straying

onward rather like a sleep walker than a hunter, it was attributable to

no care of his own that his devious course kept him in the vicinity of

the encampment. His steps were imperceptibly led almost in a circle;

nor did he observe that he was on the verge of a tract of land heavily

timbered, but not with pine-trees. The place of the latter was here

supplied by oaks and other of the harder woods; and around their roots

clustered a dense and bushy under-growth, leaving, however, barren

spaces between the trees, thick strewn with withered leaves.

Whenever

the rustling of the branches or the creaking of the trunks made a

sound, as if the forest were waking from slumber, Reuben instinctively

raised the musket that rested on his arm, and cast a quick, sharp

glance on every side; but, convinced by a partial observation that no

animal was near, he would again give himself up to his thoughts. He was

musing on the strange influence that had led him away from his

premeditated course, and so far into the depths of the wilderness.

Unable to penetrate to the secret place of his soul where his motives

lay hidden, he believed that a supernatural voice had called him

onward, and that a supernatural power had obstructed his retreat. He

trusted that it was Heaven’s intent to afford him an opportunity of

expiating his sin; he hoped that he might find the bones so long

unburied; and that, having laid the earth over them, peace would throw

its sunlight into the sepulchre of his heart. From these thoughts he

was aroused by a rustling in the forest at some distance from the spot

to which he had wandered. Perceiving the motion of some object behind a

thick veil of undergrowth, he fired, with the instinct of a hunter and

the aim of a practised marksman. A low moan, which told his success,

and by which even animals cars express their dying agony, was unheeded

by Reuben Bourne. What were the recollections now breaking upon him?

The thicket into which Reuben had fired was near the summit of a swell

of land, and was clustered around the base of a rock, which, in the

shape and smoothness of one of its surfaces, was not unlike a gigantic

gravestone. As if reflected in a mirror, its likeness was in Reuben’s

memory. He even recognized the veins which seemed to form an

inscription in forgotten characters: everything remained the same,

except that a thick covert of bushes shrouded the lowerpart of the

rock, and would have hidden Roger Malvin had he still been sitting

there. Yet in the next moment Reuben’s eye was caught by another change

that time had effected since he last stood where he was now standing

again behind the earthy roots of the uptorn tree. The sapling to which

he had bound the bloodstained symbol of his vow had increased and

strengthened into an oak, far indeed from its maturity, but with no

mean spread of shadowy branches. There was one singularity observable

in this tree which made Reuben tremble.

The middle and lower branches

were in luxuriant life, and an excess of vegetation had fringed the

trunk almost to the ground; but a blight had apparently stricken the

upper part of the oak, and the very topmost bough was withered,

sapless, and utterly dead. Reuben remembered how the little banner had

fluttered on that topmost bough, when it was green and lovely, eighteen

years before. Whose guilt had blasted it?

Dorcas, after the departure of the two hunters, continued her

preparations for their evening repast. Her sylvan table was the

moss-covered trunk of a large fallen tree, on the broadest part of

which she had spread a snow-white cloth and arranged what were left of

the bright pewter vessels that had been her pride in the settlements.

It had a strange aspect that one little spot of homely comfort in the

desolate heart of Nature. The sunshine yet lingered upon the higher

branches of the trees that grew on rising ground; but the shadows of

evening had deepened into the hollow where the encampment was made, and

the firelight began to redden as it gleamed up the tall trunks of the

pines or hovered on the dense and obscure mass of foliage that circled

round the spot. The heart of Dorcas was not sad; for she felt that it

was better to journey in the wilderness with two whom she loved than to

be a lonely woman in a crowd that cared not for her. As she busied

herself in arranging seats of mouldering wood, covered with leaves, for

Reuben and her son, her voice danced through the gloomy forest in the

measure of a song that she had learned in youth. The rude melody, the

production of a bard who won no name, was descriptive of a winter

evening in a frontier cottage, when, secured from savage inroad by the

high-piled snow-drifts, the family rejoiced by their own fireside. The

whole song possessed the nameless charm peculiar to unborrowed thought,

but four continually-recurring lines shone out from the rest like the

blaze of the hearth whose joys they celebrated. Into them, working

magic with a few simple words, the poet had instilled the very essence

of domestic love and household happiness, and they were poetry and

picture joined in one. As Dorcas sang, the walls of her forsaken home

seemed to encircle her; she no longer saw the gloomy pines, nor heard

the wind which still, as she began each verse, sent a heavy breath

through the branches, and died away in a hollow moan from the burden of

the song.

She was aroused by the report of a gun in the vicinity of the

encampment; and either the sudden sound, or her loneliness by the

glowing fire, caused her to tremble violently. The next moment she

laughed in the pride of a mother’s heart.

“My beautiful young hunter! My boy has slain a deer!” she exclaimed,

recollecting that in the direction whence the shot proceeded Cyrus had

gone to the chase.

She waited a reasonable time to hear her son’s light step bounding over

the rustling leaves to tell of his success. But he did not immediately

appear; and she sent her cheerful voice among the trees in search of

him.

“Cyrus! Cyrus!”

His coming was still delayed; and she determined, as the report had

apparently been very near, to seek for him in person. Her assistance,

also, might be necessary in bringing home the venison which she

flattered herself he had obtained. She therefore set forward, directing

her steps by the long-past sound, and singing as she went, in order

that the boy might be aware of her approach and run to meet her. From

behind the trunk of every tree, and from every hiding-place in the

thick foliage of the undergrowth, she hoped to discover the countenance

of her son, laughing with the sportive mischief that is born of

affection. The sun was now beneath the horizon, and the light that came

down among the leaves was sufficiently dim to create many illusions in

her expecting fancy. Several times she seemed indistinctly to see his

face gazing out from among the leaves; and once she imagined that he

stood beckoning to her at the base of a craggy rock. Keeping her eyes

on this object, however, it proved to be no more than the trunk of an

oak fringed to the very ground with little branches, one of which,

thrust out farther than the rest, was shaken by the breeze. Making her

way round the foot of the rock, she suddenly found herself close to her

husband, who had approached in another direction. Leaning upon the butt

of his gun, the muzzle of which rested upon the withered leaves, he was

apparently absorbed in the contemplation of some object at his feet.

“How is this, Reuben? Have you slain the deer and fallen asleep over

him?” exclaimed Dorcas, laughing cheerfully, on her first slight

observation of his posture and appearance.

He stirred not, neither did he turn his eyes towards her; and a cold,

shuddering fear, indefinite in its source and object, began to creep

into her blood.

She now perceived that her husband’s face was ghastly

pale, and his features were rigid, as if incapable of assuming any

other expression than the strong despair which had hardened upon them.

He gave not the slightest evidence that he was aware of her approach.

“For the love of Heaven, Reuben, speak to me!” cried Dorcas; and the

strange sound of her own voice affrighted her even more than the dead

silence.

Her husband started, stared into her face, drew her to the front of the

rock, and pointed with his finger.

Oh, there lay the boy, asleep, but dreamless, upon the fallen forest

leaves! His cheek rested upon his arm—his curled locks were thrown back

from his brow—his limbs were slightly relaxed. Had a sudden weariness

overcome the youthful hunter? Would his mother’s voice arouse him? She

knew that it was death.

“This broad rock is the gravestone of your near kindred, Dorcas,” said

her husband. “Your tears will fall at once over your father and your

son.”

She heard him not. With one wild shriek, that seemed to force its way

from the sufferer’s inmost soul, she sank insensible by the side of her

dead boy. At that moment the withered topmost bough of the oak loosened

itself in the stilly air, and fell in soft, light fragments upon the

rock, upon the leaves, upon Reuben, upon his wife and child, and upon

Roger Malvin’s bones. Then Reuben’s heart was stricken, and the tears

gushed out like water from a rock. The vow that the wounded youth had

made the blighted man had come to redeem. His sin was expiated,—the

curse was gone from him; and in the hour when he had shed blood dearer

to him than his own, a prayer, the first for years, went up to Heaven

from the lips of Reuben Bourne.

Chapter 20.

P.’S CORRESPONDENCE.

My unfortunate friend P. has lost the thread of his life by the

interposition of long intervals of partially disordered reason. The

past and present are jumbled together in his mind in a manner often

productive of curious results, and which will be better understood

after the perusal of the following letter than from any description

that I could give. The poor fellow, without once stirring from the

little whitewashed, iron-grated room to which he alludes in his first

paragraph, is nevertheless a great traveller, and meets in his

wanderings a variety of personages who have long ceased to be visible

to any eye save his own.

In my opinion, all this is not so much a

delusion as a partly wilful and partly involuntary sport of the

imagination, to which his disease has imparted such morbid energy that

he beholds these spectral scenes and characters with no less

distinctness than a play upon the stage, and with somewhat more of

illusive credence. Many of his letters are in my possession, some based

upon the same vagary as the present one, and others upon hypotheses not

a whit short of it in absurdity. The whole form a series of

correspondence, which, should fate seasonably remove my poor friend

from what is to him a world of moonshine, I promise myself a pious

pleasure in editing for the public eye. P. had always a hankering after

literary reputation, and has made more than one unsuccessful effort to

achieve it. It would not be a little odd, if, after missing his object

while seeking it by the light of reason, he should prove to have

stumbled upon it in his misty excursions beyond the limits of sanity.

LONDON, February 29, 1845.

MY DEAR FRIEND: Old associations cling to the mind with astonishing

tenacity. Daily custom grows up about us like a stone wall, and

consolidates itself into almost as material an entity as mankind’s

strongest architecture. It is sometimes a serious question with me

whether ideas be not really visible and tangible, and endowed with all

the other qualities of matter. Sitting as I do at this moment in my

hired apartment, writing beside the hearth, over which hangs a print of

Queen Victoria, listening to the muffled roar of the world’s

metropolis, and with a window at but five paces distant, through which,

whenever I please, I can gaze out on actual London,—with all this

positive certainty as to my whereabouts, what kind of notion, do you

think, is just now perplexing my brain? Why,—would you believe it?—that

all this time I am still an inhabitant of that wearisome little

chamber,—that whitewashed little chamber,—that little chamber with its

one small window, across which, from some inscrutable reason of taste

or convenience, my landlord had placed a row of iron bars,—that same

little chamber, in short, whither your kindness has so often brought

you to visit me! Will no length of time or breadth of space enfranchise

me from that unlovely abode? I travel; but it seems to be like the

snail, with my house upon my head.

Ah, well! I am verging, I suppose,

on that period of life when present scenes and events make but feeble

impressions in comparison with those of yore; so that I must reconcile

myself to be more and more the prisoner of Memory, who merely lets me

hop about a little with her chain around my leg.

My letters of introduction have been of the utmost service, enabling me

to make the acquaintance of several distinguished characters who, until

now, have seemed as remote from the sphere of my personal intercourse

as the wits of Queen Anne’s time or Ben Jenson’s compotators at the

Mermaid. One of the first of which I availed myself was the letter to

Lord Byron. I found his lordship looking much older than I had

anticipated, although, considering his former irregularities of life

and the various wear and tear of his constitution, not older than a man

on the verge of sixty reasonably may look. But I had invested his

earthly frame, in my imagination, with the poet’s spiritual

immortality. He wears a brown wig, very luxuriantly curled, and

extending down over his forehead. The expression of his eyes is

concealed by spectacles. His early tendency to obesity having

increased, Lord Byron is now enormously fat,—so fat as to give the

impression of a person quite overladen with his own flesh, and without

sufficient vigor to diffuse his personal life through the great mass of

corporeal substance which weighs upon him so cruelly. You gaze at the

mortal heap; and, while it fills your eye with what purports to be

Byron, you murmur within yourself, “For Heaven’s sake, where is he?”

Were I disposed to be caustic, I might consider this mass of earthly

matter as the symbol, in a material shape, of those evil habits and

carnal vices which unspiritualize man’s nature and clog up his avenues

of communication with the better life. But this would be too harsh;

and, besides, Lord Byron’s morals have been improving while his outward

man has swollen to such unconscionable circumference. Would that he

were leaner; for, though he did me the honor to present his hand, yet

it was so puffed out with alien substance that I could not feel as if I

had touched the hand that wrote Childe Harold.

On my entrance his lordship apologized for not rising to receive me, on

the sufficient plea that the gout for several years past had taken up

its constant residence in his right foot, which accordingly was swathed

in many rolls of flannel and deposited upon a cushion. The other foot

was hidden in the drapery of his chair. Do you recollect whether

Byron’s right or left foot was the deformed one.

The noble poet’s reconciliation with Lady Byron is now, as you are

aware, of ten years’ standing; nor does it exhibit, I am assured, any

symptom of breach or fracture. They are said to be, if not a happy, at

least a contented, or at all events a quiet couple, descending the

slope of life with that tolerable degree of mutual support which will

enable them to come easily and comfortably to the bottom. It is

pleasant to reflect how entirely the poet has redeemed his youthful

errors in this particular. Her ladyship’s influence, it rejoices me to

add, has been productive of the happiest results upon Lord Byron in a

religious point of view. He now combines the most rigid tenets of

Methodism with the ultra doctrines of the Puseyites; the former being

perhaps due to the convictions wrought upon his mind by his noble

consort, while the latter are the embroidery and picturesque

illumination demanded by his imaginative character. Much of whatever

expenditure his increasing habits of thrift continue to allow him is

bestowed in the reparation or beautifying of places of worship; and

this nobleman, whose name was once considered a synonyme of the foul

fiend, is now all but canonized as a saint in many pulpits of the

metropolis and elsewhere. In politics, Lord Byron is an uncompromising

conservative, and loses no opportunity, whether in the House of Lords

or in private circles, of denouncing and repudiating the mischievous

and anarchical notions of his earlier day. Nor does he fail to visit

similar sins in other people with the sincerest vengeance which his

somewhat blunted pen is capable of inflicting. Southey and he are on

the most intimate terms. You are aware that, some little time before

the death of Moore, Byron caused that brilliant but reprehensible man

to be evicted from his house. Moore took the insult so much to heart

that, it is said to have been one great cause of the fit of illness

which brought him to the grave. Others pretend that the lyrist died in

a very happy state of mind, singing one of his own sacred melodies, and

expressing his belief that it would be heard within the gate of

paradise, and gain him instant and honorable admittance. I wish he may

have found it so.

I failed not, as you may suppose, in the course of conversation with

Lord Byron, to pay the weed of homage due to a mighty poet, by

allusions to passages in Childe Harold, and Manfred, and Don Juan,

which have made so large a portion of the music of my life. My words,

whether apt or otherwise, were at least warm with the enthusiasm of one

worthy to discourse of immortal poesy.

It was evident, however, that

they did not go precisely to the right spot. I could perceive that

there was some mistake or other, and was not a little angry with

myself, and ashamed of my abortive attempt to throw back, from my own

heart to the gifted author’s ear, the echo of those strains that have

resounded throughout the world. But by and by the secret peeped quietly

out. Byron,—I have the information from his own lips, so that you need

not hesitate to repeat it in literary circles,—Byron is preparing a new

edition of his complete works, carefully corrected, expurgated, and

amended, in accordance with his present creed of taste, morals,

politics, and religion. It so happened that the very passages of

highest inspiration to which I had alluded were among the condemned and

rejected rubbish which it is his purpose to cast into the gulf of

oblivion. To whisper you the truth, it appears to me that his passions

having burned out, the extinction of their vivid and riotous flame has

deprived Lord Byron of the illumination by which he not merely wrote,

but was enabled to feel and comprehend what he had written. Positively

he no longer understands his own poetry.

This became very apparent on his favoring me so far as to read a few

specimens of Don Juan in the moralized version. Whatever is licentious,

whatever disrespectful to the sacred mysteries of our faith, whatever

morbidly melancholic or splenetically sportive, whatever assails

settled constitutions of government or systems of society, whatever

could wound the sensibility of any mortal, except a pagan, a

republican, or a dissenter, has been unrelentingly blotted out, and its

place supplied by unexceptionable verses in his lordship’s later style.

You may judge how much of the poem remains as hitherto published. The

result is not so good as might be wished; in plain terms, it is a very

sad affair indeed; for, though the torches kindled in Tophet have been

extinguished, they leave an abominably ill odor, and are succeeded by

no glimpses of hallowed fire. It is to be hoped, nevertheless, that

this attempt on Lord Byron’s part to atone for his youthful errors will

at length induce the Dean of Westminster, or whatever churchman is

concerned, to allow Thorwaldsen’s statue of the poet its due niche in

the grand old Abbey. His bones, you know, when brought from Greece,

were denied sepulture among those of his tuneful brethren there.

What a vile slip of the pen was that! How absurd in me to talk about

burying the bones of Byron, who, I have just seen alive, and incased in

a big, round bulk of flesh! But, to say the truth, a prodigiously fat

man always impresses me as a kind of hobgoblin; in the very

extravagance of his mortal system I find something akin to the

immateriality of a ghost. And then that ridiculous old story darted

into my mind, how that Byron died of fever at Missolonghi, above twenty

years ago. More and more I recognize that we dwell in a world of

shadows; and, for my part, I hold it hardly worth the trouble to

attempt a distinction between shadows in the mind and shadows out of

it. If there be any difference, the former are rather the more

substantial.

Only think of my good fortune! The venerable Robert Burns—now, if I

mistake not, in his eighty-seventh year—happens to be making a visit to

London, as if on purpose to afford me an opportunity of grasping him by

the hand. For upwards of twenty years past he has hardly left his quiet

cottage in Ayrshire for a single night, and has only been drawn hither

now by the irresistible persuasions of all the distinguished men in

England. They wish to celebrate the patriarch’s birthday by a festival.

It will be the greatest literary triumph on record. Pray Heaven the

little spirit of life within the aged bard’s bosom may not be

extinguished in the lustre of that hour! I have already had the honor

of an introduction to him at the British Museum, where he was examining

a collection of his own unpublished letters, interspersed with songs,

which have escaped the notice of all his biographers.

Poh! Nonsense! What am I thinking of? How should Burns have been

embalmed in biography when he is still a hearty old man?

The figure of the bard is tall and in the highest degree reverend, nor

the less so that it is much bent by the burden of time. His white hair

floats like a snowdrift around his face, in which are seen the furrows

of intellect and passion, like the channels of headlong torrents that

have foamed themselves away. The old gentleman is in excellent

preservation, considering his time of life. He has that crickety sort

of liveliness,—I mean the cricket’s humor of chirping for any cause or

none,—which is perhaps the most favorable mood that can befall extreme

old age. Our pride forbids us to desire it for ourselves, although we

perceive it to be a beneficence of nature in the case of others. I was

surprised to find it in Burns.

It seems as if his ardent heart and

brilliant imagination had both burned down to the last embers, leaving

only a little flickering flame in one corner, which keeps dancing

upward and laughing all by itself. He is no longer capable of pathos.

At the request of Allan Cunningham, he attempted to sing his own song

to Mary in Heaven; but it was evident that the feeling of those verses,

so profoundly true and so simply expressed, was entirely beyond the

scope of his present sensibilities; and, when a touch of it did

partially awaken him, the tears immediately gushed into his eyes and

his voice broke into a tremulous cackle. And yet he but indistinctly

knew wherefore he was weeping. Ah, he must not think again of Mary in

Heaven until he shake off the dull impediment of time and ascend to

meet her there.

Burns then began to repeat Tan O’Shanter; but was so tickled with its

wit and humor—of which, however, I suspect he had but a traditionary

sense—that he soon burst into a fit of chirruping laughter, succeeded

by a cough, which brought this not very agreeable exhibition to a

close. On the whole, I would rather not have witnessed it. It is a

satisfactory idea, however, that the last forty years of the peasant

poet’s life have been passed in competence and perfect comfort. Having

been cured of his bardic improvidence for many a day past, and grown as

attentive to the main chance as a canny Scotsman should be, he is now

considered to be quite well off as to pecuniary circumstances. This, I

suppose, is worth having lived so long for.

I took occasion to inquire of some of the countrymen of Burns in regard

to the health of Sir Walter Scott. His condition, I am sorry to say,

remains the same as for ten years past; it is that of a hopeless

paralytic, palsied not more in body than in those nobler attributes of

which the body is the instrument. And thus he vegetates from day to day

and from year to year at that splendid fantasy of Abbotsford, which

grew out of his brain, and became a symbol of the great romancer’s

tastes, feelings, studies, prejudices, and modes of intellect. Whether

in verse, prose, or architecture, he could achieve but one thing,

although that one in infinite variety. There he reclines, on a couch in

his library, and is said to spend whole hours of every day in dictating

tales to an amanuensis,—to an imaginary amanuensis; for it is not

deemed worth any one’s trouble now to take down what flows from that

once brilliant fancy, every image of which was formerly worth gold and

capable of being coined.

Yet Cunningham, who has lately seen him,

assures me that there is now and then a touch of the genius,—a striking

combination of incident, or a picturesque trait of character, such as

no other man alive could have bit off,—a glimmer from that ruined mind,

as if the sun had suddenly flashed on a half-rusted helmet in the gloom

of an ancient ball. But the plots of these romances become inextricably

confused; the characters melt into one another; and the tale loses

itself like the course of a stream flowing through muddy and marshy

ground.

For my part, I can hardly regret that Sir Walter Scott had lost his

consciousness of outward things before his works went out of vogue. It

was good that he should forget his fame rather than that fame should

first have forgotten him. Were he still a writer, and as brilliant a

one as ever, he could no longer maintain anything like the same

position in literature. The world, nowadays, requires a more earnest

purpose, a deeper moral, and a closer and homelier truth than he was

qualified to supply it with. Yet who can be to the present generation

even what Scott has been to the past? I had expectations from a young

man,—one Dickens,—who published a few magazine articles, very rich in

humor, and not without symptoms of genuine pathos; but the poor fellow

died shortly after commencing an odd series of sketches, entitled, I

think, the Pickwick Papers. Not impossibly the world has lost more than

it dreams of by the untimely death of this Mr. Dickens.

Whom do you think I met in Pall Mall the other day? You would not hit

it in ten guesses. Why, no less a man than Napoleon Bonaparte, or all

that is now left of him,—that is to say, the skin, bones, and corporeal

substance, little cocked hat, green coat, white breeches, and small

sword, which are still known by his redoubtable name. He was attended

only by two policemen, who walked quietly behind the phantasm of the

old ex-emperor, appearing to have no duty in regard to him except to

see that none of the light-fingered gentry should possess themselves of

thee star of the Legion of Honor. Nobody save myself so much as turned

to look after him; nor, it grieves me to confess, could even I contrive

to muster up any tolerable interest, even by all that the warlike

spirit, formerly manifested within that now decrepit shape, had wrought

upon our globe.

There is no surer method of annihilating the magic

influence of a great renown than by exhibiting the possessor of it in

the decline, the overthrow, the utter degradation of his powers,—buried

beneath his own mortality,—and lacking even the qualities of sense that

enable the most ordinary men to bear themselves decently in the eye of

the world. This is the state to which disease, aggravated by long

endurance of a tropical climate, and assisted by old age,—for he is now

above seventy,—has reduced Bonaparte. The British government has acted

shrewdly in retransporting him from St. Helena to England. They should

now restore him to Paris, and there let him once again review the

relics of his armies. His eye is dull and rheumy; his nether lip hung

down upon his chin. While I was observing him there chanced to be a

little extra bustle in the street; and he, the brother of Caesar and

Hannibal,—the great captain who had veiled the world in battle-smoke

and tracked it round with bloody footsteps,—was seized with a nervous

trembling, and claimed the protection of the two policemen by a cracked

and dolorous cry. The fellows winked at one another, laughed aside,

and, patting Napoleon on the back, took each an arm and led him away.

Death and fury! Ha, villain, how came you hither? Avaunt! or I fling my

inkstand at your head. Tush, tusk; it is all a mistake. Pray, my dear

friend, pardon this little outbreak. The fact is, the mention of those

two policemen, and their custody of Bonaparte, had called up the idea

of that odious wretch—you remember him well—who was pleased to take

such gratuitous and impertinent care of my person before I quitted New

England. Forthwith up rose before my mind’s eye that same little

whitewashed room, with the iron-grated window,—strange that it should

have been iron-grated!—where, in too easy compliance with the absurd

wishes of my relatives, I have wasted several good years of my life.

Positively it seemed to me that I was still sitting there, and that the

keeper—not that he ever was my keeper neither, but only a kind of

intrusive devil of a body-servant—had just peeped in at the door. The

rascal! I owe him an old grudge, and will find a time to pay it yet.

Fie! fie! The mere thought of him has exceedingly discomposed me. Even

now that hateful chamber—the iron-grated window, which blasted the

blessed sunshine as it fell through the dusty panes and made it poison

to my soul-looks more distinct to my view than does this my comfortable

apartment in the heart of London.

The reality—that which I know to be

such—hangs like remnants of tattered scenery over the intolerably

prominent illusion. Let us think of it no more.

You will be anxious to hear of Shelley. I need not say, what is known

to all the world, that this celebrated poet has for many years past

been reconciled to the Church of England. In his more recent works he

has applied his fine powers to the vindication of the Christian faith,

with an especial view to that particular development. Latterly, as you

may not have heard, he has taken orders, and been inducted to a small

country living in the gift of the Lord Chancellor. Just now, luckily

for me, he has come to the metropolis to superintend the publication of

a volume of discourses treating of the poetico-philosophical proofs of

Christianity on the basis of the Thirty-nine Articles. On my first

introduction I felt no little embarrassment as to the manner of

combining what I had to say to the author of _Queen Mali_, the _Revolt

of Islam_, and _Prometheus Unbound_ with such acknowledgments as might

be acceptable to a Christian minister and zealous upholder of the

Established Church. But Shelley soon placed me at my ease. Standing

where he now does, and reviewing all his successive productions from a

higher point, he assures me that there is a harmony, an order, a

regular procession, which enables him to lay his hand upon any one of

the earlier poems and say, “This is my work,” with precisely the same

complacency of conscience wherewithal he contemplates the volume of

discourses above mentioned. They are like the successive steps of a

staircase, the lowest of which, in the depth of chaos, is as essential

to the support of the whole as the highest and final one resting upon

the threshold of the heavens. I felt half inclined to ask him what

would have been his fate had he perished on the lower steps of his

staircase, instead of building his way aloft into the celestial

brightness.

How all this may be I neither pretend to understand nor greatly care,

so long as Shelley has really climbed, as it seems he has, from a lower

region to a loftier one. Without touching upon their religious merits,

I consider the productions of his maturity superior, as poems, to those

of his youth. They are warmer with human love, which has served as an

interpreter between his mind and the multitude. The author has learned

to dip his pen oftener into his heart, and has thereby avoided the

faults into which a too exclusive use of fancy and intellect are wont

to betray him.

Formerly his page was often little other than a concrete

arrangement of crystallizations, or even of icicles, as cold as they

were brilliant. Now you take it to your heart, and are conscious of a

heart-warmth responsive to your own. In his private character Shelley

can hardly have grown more gentle, kind, and affectionate than his

friends always represented him to be up to that disastrous night when

he was drowned in the Mediterranean. Nonsense, again,—sheer nonsense!

What, am I babbling about? I was thinking of that old figment of his

being lost in the Bay of Spezzia, and washed ashore near Via Reggio,

and burned to ashes on a funeral pyre, with wine, and spices, and

frankincense; while Byron stood on the beach and beheld a flame of

marvellous beauty rise heavenward from the dead poet’s heart, and that

his fire-purified relics were finally buried near his child in Roman

earth. If all this happened three-and-twenty years ago, how could I

have met the drowned and burned and buried man here in London only

yesterday?

Before quitting the subject, I may mention that Dr. Reginald Heber,

heretofore Bishop of Calcutta, but recently translated to a see in

England, called on Shelley while I was with him. They appeared to be on

terms of very cordial intimacy, and are said to have a joint poem in

contemplation. What a strange, incongruous dream is the life of man!

Coleridge has at last finished his poem of Christabel. It will be

issued entire by old John Murray in the course of the present

publishing season. The poet, I hear, is visited with a troublesome

affection of the tongue, which has put a period, or some lesser stop,

to the life-long discourse that has hitherto been flowing from his

lips. He will not survive it above a month, unless his accumulation of

ideas be sluiced off in some other way. Wordsworth died only a week or

two ago. Heaven rest his soul, and grant that he may not have completed

_The Excursion_! Methinks I am sick of everything he wrote, except his

_Laodamia_. It is very sad, this inconstancy of the mind to the poets

whom it once worshipped. Southey is as hale as ever, and writes with

his usual diligence. Old Gifford is still alive, in the extremity of

age, and with most pitiable decay of what little sharp and narrow

intellect the Devil had gifted him withal. One hates to allow such a

man the privilege of growing old and infirm. It takes away our

speculative license of kicking him.

Keats? No; I have not seen him except across a crowded street, with

coaches, drays, horsemen, cabs, omnibuses, foot-passengers, and divers

other sensual obstructions intervening betwixt his small and slender

figure and my eager glance. I would fain have met him on the sea-shore,

or beneath a natural arch of forest trees, or the Gothic arch of an old

cathedral, or among Grecian ruins, or at a glimmering fireside on the

verge of evening, or at the twilight entrance of a cave, into the

dreamy depths of which he would have led me by the hand; anywhere, in

short, save at Temple Bar, where his presence was blotted out by the

porter-swollen bulks of these gross Englishmen. I stood and watched him

fading away, fading away along the pavement, and could hardly tell

whether he were an actual man or a thought that had slipped out of my

mind and clothed itself in human form and habiliments merely to beguile

me. At one moment he put his handkerchief to his lips, and withdrew it,

I am almost certain, stained with blood. You never saw anything so

fragile as his person. The truth is, Keats has all his life felt the

effects of that terrible bleeding at the lungs caused by the article on

his Endymion in the Quarterly Review, and which so nearly brought him

to the grave. Ever since he has glided about the world like a ghost,

sighing a melancholy tone in the ear of here and there a friend, but

never sending forth his voice to greet the multitude. I can hardly

think him a great poet. The burden of a mighty genius would never have

been imposed upon shoulders so physically frail and a spirit so

infirmly sensitive. Great poets should have iron sinews.

Yet Keats, though for so many years he has given nothing to the world,

is understood to have devoted himself to the composition of an epic

poem. Some passages of it have been communicated to the inner circle of

his admirers, and impressed them as the loftiest strains that have been

audible on earth since Milton’s days. If I can obtain copies of these

specimens, I will ask you to present them to James Russell Lowell, who

seems to be one of the poet’s most fervent and worthiest worshippers.

The information took me by surprise. I had supposed that all Keats’s

poetic incense, without being embodied in human language, floated up to

heaven and mingled with the songs of the immortal choristers, who

perhaps were conscious of an unknown voice among them, and thought

their melody the sweeter for it.

But it is not so; he has positively

written a poem on the subject of _Paradise Regained_, though in another

sense than that which presented itself to the mind of Milton. In

compliance, it may be imagined, with the dogma of those who pretend

that all epic possibilities in the past history of the world are

exhausted, Keats has thrown his poem forward into an indefinitely

remote futurity. He pictures mankind amid the closing circumstances of

the time-long warfare between good and evil. Our race is on the eve of

its final triumph. Man is within the last stride of perfection; Woman,

redeemed from the thraldom against which our sibyl uplifts so powerful

and so sad a remonstrance, stands equal by his side or communes for

herself with angels; the Earth, sympathizing with her children’s

happier state, has clothed herself in such luxuriant and loving beauty

as no eye ever witnessed since our first parents saw the sun rise over

dewy Eden. Nor then indeed; for this is the fulfilment of what was then

but a golden promise. But the picture has its shadows. There remains to

mankind another peril,—a last encounter with the evil principle. Should

the battle go against us, we sink back into the slime and misery of

ages. If we triumph—But it demands a poet’s eye to contemplate the

splendor of such a consummation and not to be dazzled.

To this great work Keats is said to have brought so deep and tender a

spirit of humanity that the poem has all the sweet and warm interest of

a village tale no less than the grandeur which befits so high a theme.

Such, at least, is the perhaps partial representation of his friends;

for I have not read or heard even a single line of the performance in

question. Keats, I am told, withholds it from the press, under an idea

that the age has not enough of spiritual insight to receive it

worthily. I do not like this distrust; it makes me distrust the poet.

The universe is waiting to respond to the highest word that the best

child of time and immortality can utter. If it refuse to listen, it is

because he mumbles and stammers, or discourses things unseasonable and

foreign to the purpose.

I visited the House of Lords the other day to hear Canning, who, you

know, is now a peer, with I forget what title. He disappointed me. Time

blunts both point and edge, and does great mischief to men of his order

of intellect. Then I stepped into the lower House and listened to a few

words from Cobbett, who looked as earthy as a real clodhopper, or

rather as if he had lain a dozen years beneath the clods.

The men whom

I meet nowadays often impress me thus; probably because my spirits are

not very good, and lead me to think much about graves, with the long

grass upon them, and weather-worn epitaphs, and dry bones of people who

made noise enough in their day, but now can only clatter, clatter,

clatter, when the sexton’s spade disturbs them. Were it only possible

to find out who are alive and who dead, it would contribute infinitely

to my peace of mind. Every day of my life somebody comes and stares me

in the face whom I had quietly blotted out of the tablet of living men,

and trusted nevermore to be pestered with the sight or sound of him.

For instance, going to Drury Lane Theatre a few evenings since, up rose

before me, in the ghost of Hamlet’s father, the bodily presence of the

elder Kean, who did die, or ought to have died, in some drunken fit or

other, so long ago that his fame is scarcely traditionary now. His

powers are quite gone; he was rather the ghost of himself than the

ghost of the Danish king.

In the stage-box sat several elderly and decrepit people, and among

them a stately ruin of a woman on a very large scale, with a

profile—for I did not see her front face—that stamped itself into my

brain as a seal impresses hot wax. By the tragic gesture with which she

took a pinch of snuff, I was sure it must be Mrs. Siddons. Her brother,

John Kemble, sat behind,—a broken-down figure, but still with a kingly

majesty about him. In lieu of all former achievements, Nature enables

him to look the part of Lear far better than in the meridian of his

genius. Charles Matthews was likewise there; but a paralytic affection

has distorted his once mobile countenance into a most disagreeable

one-sidedness, from which he could no more wrench it into proper form

than he could rearrange the face of the great globe itself. It looks as

if, for the joke’s sake, the poor man had twisted his features into an

expression at once the most ludicrous and horrible that he could

contrive, and at that very moment, as a judgment for making himself so

hideous, an avenging Providence had seen fit to petrify him. Since it

is out of his own power, I would gladly assist him to change

countenance, for his ugly visage haunts me both at noontide and

night-time. Some other players of the past generation were present, but

none that greatly interested me. It behooves actors, more than all

other men of publicity, to vanish from the scene betimes.

Being at best

but painted shadows flickering on the wall and empty sounds that echo

anther’s thought, it is a sad disenchantment when the colors begin to

fade and the voice to croak with age.

What is there new in the literary way on your side of the water?

Nothing of the kind has come under any inspection, except a volume of

poems published above a year ago by Dr. Channing. I did not before know

that this eminent writer is a poet; nor does the volume alluded to

exhibit any of the characteristics of the author’s mind as displayed in

his prose works; although some of the poems have a richness that is not

merely of the surface, but glows still the brighter the deeper and more

faithfully you look into then. They seem carelessly wrought, however,

like those rings and ornaments of the very purest gold, but of rude,

native manufacture, which are found among the gold-dust from Africa. I

doubt whether the American public will accept them; it looks less to

the assay of metal than to the neat and cunning manufacture. How slowly

our literature grows up! Most of our writers of promise have come to

untimely ends. There was that wild fellow, John Neal, who almost turned

my boyish brain with his romances; he surely has long been dead, else

he never could keep himself so quiet. Bryant has gone to his last

sleep, with the _Thanatopsis_ gleaming over him like a sculptured

marble sepulchre by moonlight. Halleck, who used to write queer verses

in the newspapers and published a Don Juanic poem called _Fanny_, is

defunct as a poet, though averred to be exemplifying the metempsychosis

as a man of business. Somewhat later there was Whittier, a fiery Quaker

youth, to whom the muse had perversely assigned a battle-trumpet, and

who got himself lynched, ten years agone, in South Carolina. I

remember, too, a lad just from college, Longfellow by name, who

scattered some delicate verses to the winds, and went to Germany, and

perished, I think, of intense application, at the University of

Gottingen. Willis—what a pity!—was lost, if I recollect rightly, in

1833, on his voyage to Europe, whither he was going to give us sketches

of the world’s sunny face. If these had lived, they might, one or all

of them, have grown to be famous men.

And yet there is no telling: it may be as well that they have died. I

was myself a young man of promise.

O shattered brain, O broken spirit,

where is the fulfilment of that promise? The sad truth is, that, when

fate would gently disappoint the world, it takes away the hopefulest

mortals in their youth; when it would laugh the world’s hopes to scorn,

it lets them live. Let me die upon this apothegm, for I shall never

make a truer one.

What a strange substance is the human brain! Or rather,—for there is no

need of generalizing the remark,—what an odd brain is mine! Would you

believe it? Daily and nightly there come scraps of poetry humming in my

intellectual ear—some as airy as birdnotes, and some as delicately neat

as parlor-music, and a few as grand as organ-peals—that seem just such

verses as those departed poets would have written had not an inexorable

destiny snatched them from their inkstands. They visit me in spirit,

perhaps desiring to engage my services as the amanuensis of their

posthumous productions, and thus secure the endless renown that they

have forfeited by going hence too early. But I have my own business to

attend to; and besides, a medical gentleman, who interests himself in

some little ailments of mine, advises me not to make too free use of

pen and ink. There are clerks enough out of employment who would be

glad of such a job.

Good by! Are you alive or dead? and what are you about? Still

scribbling for the Democratic? And do those infernal compositors and

proof-readers misprint your unfortunate productions as vilely as ever?

It is too bad. Let every man manufacture his own nonsense, say I.

Expect me home soon, and—to whisper you a secret—in company with the

poet Campbell, who purposes to visit Wyoming and enjoy the shadow of

the laurels that he planted there. Campbell is now an old man. He calls

himself well, better than ever in his life, but looks strangely pale,

and so shadow-like that one might almost poke a finger through his

densest material. I tell him, by way of joke, that he is as dim and

forlorn as Memory, though as unsubstantial as Hope.

Your true friend, P.

P. S.—Pray present my most respectful regards to our venerable and

revered friend Mr. Brockden Brown.

It gratifies me to learn that a complete edition of his works, in a

double-columned octavo volume, is shortly to issue from the press at

Philadelphia. Tell him that no American writer enjoys a more classic

reputation on this side of the water. Is old Joel Barlow yet alive?

Unconscionable man! Why, he must have nearly fulfilled his century.

And

does he meditate an epic on the war between Mexico and Texas with

machinery contrived on the principle of the steam-engine, as being the

nearest to celestial agency that our epoch can boast? How can he expect

ever to rise again, if, while just sinking into his grave, he persists

in burdening himself with such a ponderosity of leaden verses?

Chapter 21.

EARTH’S HOLOCAUST.

Once upon a time—but whether in the time past or time to come is a

matter of little or no moment—this wide world had become so

overburdened with an accumulation of worn-out trumpery, that the

inhabitants determined to rid themselves of it by a general bonfire.

The site fixed upon at the representation of the insurance companies,

and as being as central a spot as any other on the globe, was one of

the broadest prairies of the West, where no human habitation would be

endangered by the flames, and where a vast assemblage of spectators

might commodiously admire the show. Having a taste for sights of this

kind, and imagining, likewise, that the illumination of the bonfire

might reveal some profundity of moral truth heretofore hidden in mist

or darkness, I made it convenient to journey thither and be present. At

my arrival, although the heap of condemned rubbish was as yet

comparatively small, the torch had already been applied. Amid that

boundless plain, in the dusk of the evening, like a far off star alone

in the firmament, there was merely visible one tremulous gleam, whence

none could have anticipated so fierce a blaze as was destined to ensue.

With every moment, however, there came foot-travellers, women holding

up their aprons, men on horseback, wheelbarrows, lumbering

baggage-wagons, and other vehicles, great and small, and from far and

near, laden with articles that were judged fit for nothing but to be

burned.

“What materials have been used to kindle the flame?” inquired I of a

bystander; for I was desirous of knowing the whole process of the

affair from beginning to end.

The person whom I addressed was a grave man, fifty years old or

thereabout, who had evidently come thither as a looker-on. He struck me

immediately as having weighed for himself the true value of life and

its circumstances, and therefore as feeling little personal interest in

whatever judgment the world might form of them. Before answering my

question, he looked me in the face by the kindling light of the fire.

“O, some very dry combustibles,” replied he, “and extremely suitable to

the purpose,—no other, in fact, than yesterday’s newspapers, last

month’s magazines, and last year’s withered leaves.

Here now comes some

antiquated trash that will take fire like a handful of shavings.”

As he spoke, some rough-looking men advanced to the verge of the

bonfire, and threw in, as it appeared, all the rubbish of the herald’s

office,—the blazonry of coat armor, the crests and devices of

illustrious families, pedigrees that extended back, like lines of

light, into the mist of the dark ages, together with stars, garters,

and embroidered collars, each of which, as paltry a bawble as it might

appear to the uninstructed eye, had once possessed vast significance,

and was still, in truth, reckoned among the most precious of moral or

material facts by the worshippers of the gorgeous past. Mingled with

this confused heap, which was tossed into the flames by armfuls at

once, were innumerable badges of knighthood, comprising those of all

the European sovereignties, and Napoleon’s decoration of the Legion of

Honor, the ribbons of which were entangled with those of the ancient

order of St. Louis. There, too, were the medals of our own Society of

Cincinnati, by means of which, as history tells us, an order of

hereditary knights came near being constituted out of the king quellers

of the Revolution. And besides, there were the patents of nobility of

German counts and barons, Spanish grandees, and English peers, from the

worm-eaten instruments signed by William the Conqueror down to the

bran-new parchment of the latest lord who has received his honors from

the fair hand of Victoria.

At sight of the dense volumes of smoke, mingled with vivid jets of

flame, that gushed and eddied forth from this immense pile of earthly

distinctions, the multitude of plebeian spectators set up a joyous

shout, and clapped their hands with an emphasis that made the welkin

echo. That was their moment of triumph, achieved, after long ages, over

creatures of the same clay and the same spiritual infirmities, who had

dared to assume the privileges due only to Heaven’s better workmanship.

But now there rushed towards the blazing heap a gray-haired man, of

stately presence, wearing a coat, from the breast of which a star, or

other badge of rank, seemed to have been forcibly wrenched away. He had

not the tokens of intellectual power in his face; but still there was

the demeanor, the habitual and almost native dignity, of one who had

been born to the idea of his own social superiority, and had never felt

it questioned till that moment.

“People,” cried he, gazing at the ruin of what was dearest to his eyes

with grief and wonder, but nevertheless with a degree of

stateliness,—“people, what have you done? This fire is consuming all

that marked your advance from barbarism, or that could have prevented

your relapse thither. We, the men of the privileged orders, were those

who kept alive from age to age the old chivalrous spirit; the gentle

and generous thought; the higher, the purer, the more refined and

delicate life. With the nobles, too, you cast off the poet, the

painter, the sculptor,—all the beautiful arts; for we were their

patrons, and created the atmosphere in which they flourish. In

abolishing the majestic distinctions of rank, society loses not only

its grace, but its steadfastness—”

More he would doubtless have spoken; but here there arose an outcry,

sportive, contemptuous, and indignant, that altogether drowned the

appeal of the fallen nobleman, insomuch that, casting one look of

despair at his own half-burned pedigree, he shrunk back into the crowd,

glad to shelter himself under his new-found insignificance.

“Let him thank his stars that we have not flung him into the same

fire!” shouted a rude figure, spurning the embers with his foot. “And

henceforth let no man dare to show a piece of musty parchment as his

warrant for lording it over his fellows. If he have strength of arm,

well and good; it is one species of superiority. If he have wit,

wisdom, courage, force of character, let these attributes do for him

what they may; but from this day forward no mortal must hope for place

and consideration by reckoning up the mouldy bones of his ancestors.

That nonsense is done away.”

“And in good time,” remarked the grave observer by my side, in a low

voice, however, “if no worse nonsense comes in its place; but, at all

events, this species of nonsense has fairly lived out its life.”

There was little space to muse or moralize over the embers of this

time-honored rubbish; for, before it was half burned out, there came

another multitude from beyond the sea, bearing the purple robes of

royalty, and the crowns, globes, and sceptres of emperors and kings.

All these had been condemned as useless bawbles, playthings at best,

fit only for the infancy of the world or rods to govern and chastise it

in its nonage, but with which universal manhood at its full-grown

stature could no longer brook to be insulted.

Into such contempt had

these regal insignia now fallen that the gilded crown and tinselled

robes of the player king from Drury Lane Theatre had been thrown in

among the rest, doubtless as a mockery of his brother monarchs on the

great stage of the world. It was a strange sight to discern the crown

jewels of England glowing and flashing in the midst of the fire. Some

of them had been delivered down from the time of the Saxon princes;

others were purchased with vast revenues, or perchance ravished from

the dead brows of the native potentates of Hindustan; and the whole now

blazed with a dazzling lustre, as if a star had fallen in that spot and

been shattered into fragments. The splendor of the ruined monarchy had

no reflection save in those inestimable precious stones. But enough on

this subject. It were but tedious to describe how the Emperor of

Austria’s mantle was converted to tinder, and how the posts and pillars

of the French throne became a heap of coals, which it was impossible to

distinguish from those of any other wood. Let me add, however, that I

noticed one of the exiled Poles stirring up the bonfire with the Czar

of Russia’s sceptre, which he afterwards flung into the flames.

“The smell of singed garments is quite intolerable here,” observed my

new acquaintance, as the breeze enveloped us in the smoke of a royal

wardrobe. “Let us get to windward and see what they are doing on the

other side of the bonfire.”

We accordingly passed around, and were just in time to witness the

arrival of a vast procession of Washingtonians,—as the votaries of

temperance call themselves nowadays,—accompanied by thousands of the

Irish disciples of Father Mathew, with that great apostle at their

head. They brought a rich contribution to the bonfire, being nothing

less than all the hogsheads and barrels of liquor in the world, which

they rolled before them across the prairie.

“Now, my children,” cried Father Mathew, when they reached the verge of

the fire, “one shove more, and the work is done. And now let us stand

off and see Satan deal with his own liquor.”

Accordingly, having placed their wooden vessels within reach of the

flames, the procession stood off at a safe distance, and soon beheld

them burst into a blaze that reached the clouds and threatened to set

the sky itself on fire. And well it might; for here was the whole

world’s stock of spirituous liquors, which, instead of kindling a

frenzied light in the eyes of individual topers as of yore, soared

upwards with a bewildering gleam that startled all mankind.

It was the

aggregate of that fierce fire which would otherwise have scorched the

hearts of millions. Meantime numberless bottles of precious wine were

flung into the blaze, which lapped up the contents as if it loved them,

and grew, like other drunkards, the merrier and fiercer for what it

quaffed. Never again will the insatiable thirst of the fire-fiend be so

pampered. Here were the treasures of famous bon vivants,—liquors that

had been tossed on ocean, and mellowed in the sun, and hoarded long in

the recesses of the earth,—the pale, the gold, the ruddy juice of

whatever vineyards were most delicate,—the entire vintage of Tokay,—all

mingling in one stream with the vile fluids of the common pot house,

and contributing to heighten the self-same blaze. And while it rose in

a gigantic spire that seemed to wave against the arch of the firmament

and combine itself with the light of stars, the multitude gave a shout

as if the broad earth were exulting in its deliverance from the curse

of ages.

But the joy was not universal. Many deemed that human life would be

gloomier than ever when that brief illumination should sink down. While

the reformers were at work I overheard muttered expostulations from

several respectable gentlemen with red noses and wearing gouty shoes;

and a ragged worthy, whose face looked like a hearth where the fire is

burned out, now expressed his discontent more openly and boldly.

“What is this world good for,” said the last toper, “now that we can

never be jolly any more? What is to comfort the poor man in sorrow and

perplexity? How is he to keep his heart warm against the cold winds of

this cheerless earth? And what do you propose to give him in exchange

for the solace that you take away? How are old friends to sit together

by the fireside without a cheerful glass between them? A plague upon

your reformation! It is a sad world, a cold world, a selfish world, a

low world, not worth an honest fellow’s living in, now that good

fellowship is gone forever!”

This harangue excited great mirth among the bystanders; but,

preposterous as was the sentiment, I could not help commiserating the

forlorn condition of the last toper, whose boon companions had dwindled

away from his side, leaving the poor fellow without a soul to

countenance him in sipping his liquor, nor indeed any liquor to sip.

Not that this was quite the true state of the case; for I had observed

him at a critical moment filch a bottle of fourth-proof brandy that

fell beside the bonfire and hide it in his pocket.

The spirituous and fermented liquors being thus disposed of, the zeal

of the reformers next induced them to replenish the fire with all the

boxes of tea and bags of coffee in the world. And now came the planters

of Virginia, bringing their crops of tobacco. These, being cast upon

the heap of inutility, aggregated it to the size of a mountain, and

incensed the atmosphere with such potent fragrance that methought we

should never draw pure breath again. The present sacrifice seemed to

startle the lovers of the weed more than any that they had hitherto

witnessed.

“Well, they’ve put my pipe out,” said an old gentleman, flinging it

into the flames in a pet. “What is this world coming to? Everything

rich and racy—all the spice of life—is to be condemned as useless. Now

that they have kindled the bonfire, if these nonsensical reformers

would fling themselves into it, all would be well enough!”

“Be patient,” responded a stanch conservative; “it will come to that in

the end. They will first fling us in, and finally themselves.”

From the general and systematic measures of reform I now turn to

consider the individual contributions to this memorable bonfire. In

many instances these were of a very amusing character. One poor fellow

threw in his empty purse, and another a bundle of counterfeit or

insolvable bank-notes. Fashionable ladies threw in their last season’s

bonnets, together with heaps of ribbons, yellow lace, and much other

half-worn milliner’s ware, all of which proved even more evanescent in

the fire than it had been in the fashion. A multitude of lovers of both

sexes—discarded maids or bachelors and couples mutually weary of one

another—tossed in bundles of perfumed letters and enamored sonnets. A

hack politician, being deprived of bread by the loss of office, threw

in his teeth, which happened to be false ones. The Rev. Sydney

Smith—having voyaged across the Atlantic for that sole purpose—came up

to the bonfire with a bitter grin and threw in certain repudiated

bonds, fortified though they were with the broad seal of a sovereign

state. A little boy of five years old, in the premature manliness of

the present epoch, threw in his playthings; a college graduate, his

diploma; an apothecary, ruined by the spread of homeopathy, his whole

stock of drugs and medicines; a physician, his library; a parson, his

old sermons; and a fine gentleman of the old school, his code of

manners, which he had formerly written down for the benefit of the next

generation. A widow, resolving on a second marriage, slyly threw in her

dead husband’s miniature.

A young man, jilted by his mistress, would

willingly have flung his own desperate heart into the flames, but could

find no means to wrench it out of his bosom. An American author, whose

works were neglected by the public, threw his pen and paper into the

bonfire and betook himself to some less discouraging occupation. It

somewhat startled me to overhear a number of ladies, highly respectable

in appearance, proposing to fling their gowns and petticoats into the

flames, and assume the garb, together with the manners, duties,

offices, and responsibilities, of the opposite sex.

What favor was accorded to this scheme I am unable to say, my attention

being suddenly drawn to a poor, deceived, and half-delirious girl, who,

exclaiming that she was the most worthless thing alive or dead,

attempted to cast herself into the fire amid all that wrecked and

broken trumpery of the world. A good man, however, ran to her rescue.

“Patience, my poor girl!” said he, as he drew her back from the fierce

embrace of the destroying angel. “Be patient, and abide Heaven’s will.

So long as you possess a living soul, all may be restored to its first

freshness. These things of matter and creations of human fantasy are

fit for nothing but to be burned when once they have had their day; but

your day is eternity!”

“Yes,” said the wretched girl, whose frenzy seemed now to have sunk

down into deep despondency, “yes, and the sunshine is blotted out of

It was now rumored among the spectators that all the weapons and

munitions of war were to be thrown into the bonfire with the exception

of the world’s stock of gunpowder, which, as the safest mode of

disposing of it, had already been drowned in the sea. This intelligence

seemed to awaken great diversity of opinion. The hopeful philanthropist

esteemed it a token that the millennium was already come; while persons

of another stamp, in whose view mankind was a breed of bulldogs,

prophesied that all the old stoutness, fervor, nobleness, generosity,

and magnanimity of the race would disappear,—these qualities, as they

affirmed, requiring blood for their nourishment. They comforted

themselves, however, in the belief that the proposed abolition of war

was impracticable for any length of time together.

Be that as it might, numberless great guns, whose thunder had long been

the voice of battle,—the artillery of the Armada, the battering trains

of Marlborough, and the adverse cannon of Napoleon and Wellington,—were

trundled into the midst of the fire.

By the continual addition of dry

combustibles, it had now waxed so intense that neither brass nor iron

could withstand it. It was wonderful to behold how these terrible

instruments of slaughter melted away like playthings of wax. Then the

armies of the earth wheeled around the mighty furnace, with their

military music playing triumphant marches,—and flung in their muskets

and swords. The standard-bearers, likewise, cast one look upward at

their banners, all tattered with shot-holes and inscribed with the

names of victorious fields; and, giving them a last flourish on the

breeze, they lowered them into the flame, which snatched them upward in

its rush towards the clouds. This ceremony being over, the world was

left without a single weapon in its hands, except possibly a few old

king’s arms and rusty swords and other trophies of the Revolution in

some of our State armories. And now the drums were beaten and the

trumpets brayed all together, as a prelude to the proclamation of

universal and eternal peace and the announcement that glory was no

longer to be won by blood, but that it would henceforth be the

contention of the human race to work out the greatest mutual good, and

that beneficence, in the future annals of the earth, would claim the

praise of valor. The blessed tidings were accordingly promulgated, and

caused infinite rejoicings among those who had stood aghast at the

horror and absurdity of war.

But I saw a grim smile pass over the seared visage of a stately old

commander,—by his war-worn figure and rich military dress, he might

have been one of Napoleon’s famous marshals,—who, with the rest of the

world’s soldiery, had just flung away the sword that had been familiar

to his right hand for half a century.

“Ay! ay!” grumbled he. “Let them proclaim what they please; but, in the

end, we shall find that all this foolery has only made more work for

the armorers and cannon-founders.”

“Why, sir,” exclaimed I, in astonishment, “do you imagine that the

human race will ever so far return on the steps of its past madness as

to weld another sword or cast another cannon?”

“There will be no need,” observed, with a sneer, one who neither felt

benevolence nor had faith in it. “When Cain wished to slay his brother,

he was at no loss for a weapon.”

“We shall see,” replied the veteran commander. “If I am mistaken, so

much the better; but in my opinion, without pretending to philosophize

about the matter, the necessity of war lies far deeper than these

honest gentlemen suppose.

What! is there a field for all the petty

disputes of individuals? and shall there be no great law court for the

settlement of national difficulties? The battle-field is the only court

where such suits can be tried.”

“You forget, general,” rejoined I, “that, in this advanced stage of

civilization, Reason and Philanthropy combined will constitute just

such a tribunal as is requisite.”

“Ah, I had forgotten that, indeed!” said the old warrior, as he limped

away.

The fire was now to be replenished with materials that had hitherto

been considered of even greater importance to the well-being of society

than the warlike munitions which we had already seen consumed. A body

of reformers had travelled all over the earth in quest of the machinery

by which the different nations were accustomed to inflict the

punishment of death. A shudder passed through the multitude as these

ghastly emblems were dragged forward. Even the flames seemed at first

to shrink away, displaying the shape and murderous contrivance of each

in a full blaze of light, which of itself was sufficient to convince

mankind of the long and deadly error of human law. Those old implements

of cruelty; those horrible monsters of mechanism; those inventions

which it seemed to demand something worse than man’s natural heart to

contrive, and which had lurked in the dusky nooks of ancient prisons,

the subject of terror-stricken legend,—were now brought forth to view.

Headsmen’s axes, with the rust of noble and royal blood upon them, and

a vast collection of halters that had choked the breath of plebeian

victims, were thrown in together. A shout greeted the arrival of the

guillotine, which was thrust forward on the same wheels that had borne

it from one to another of the bloodstained streets of Paris. But the

loudest roar of applause went up, telling the distant sky of the

triumph of the earth’s redemption, when the gallows made its

appearance. An ill-looking fellow, however, rushed forward, and,

putting himself in the path of the reformers, bellowed hoarsely, and

fought with brute fury to stay their progress.

It was little matter of surprise, perhaps, that the executioner should

thus do his best to vindicate and uphold the machinery by which he

himself had his livelihood and worthier individuals their death; but it

deserved special note that men of a far different sphere—even of that

consecrated class in whose guardianship the world is apt to trust its

benevolence—were found to take the hangman’s view of the question.

“Stay, my brethren!” cried one of them.

“You are misled by a false

philanthropy; you know not what you do. The gallows is a

Heaven-ordained instrument. Bear it back, then, reverently, and set it

up in its old place, else the world will fall to speedy ruin and

desolation!”

“Onward! onward!” shouted a leader in the reform. “Into the flames with

the accursed instrument of man’s bloody policy! How can human law

inculcate benevolence and love while it persists in setting up the

gallows as its chief symbol? One heave more, good friends, and the

world will be redeemed from its greatest error.”

A thousand hands, that nevertheless loathed the touch, now lent their

assistance, and thrust the ominous burden far, far into the centre of

the raging furnace. There its fatal and abhorred image was beheld,

first black, then a red coal, then ashes.

“That was well done!” exclaimed I.

“Yes, it was well done,” replied, but with less enthusiasm than I

expected, the thoughtful observer, who was still at my side,—“well

done, if the world be good enough for the measure. Death, however, is

an idea that cannot easily be dispensed with in any condition between

the primal innocence and that other purity and perfection which

perchance we are destined to attain after travelling round the full

circle; but, at all events, it is well that the experiment should now

be tried.”

“Too cold! too cold!” impatiently exclaimed the young and ardent leader

in this triumph. “Let the heart have its voice here as well as the

intellect. And as for ripeness, and as for progress, let mankind always

do the highest, kindest, noblest thing that, at any given period, it

has attained the perception of; and surely that thing cannot be wrong

nor wrongly timed.”

I know not whether it were the excitement of the scene, or whether the

good people around the bonfire were really growing more enlightened

every instant; but they now proceeded to measures in the full length of

which I was hardly prepared to keep them company. For instance, some

threw their marriage certificates into the flames, and declared

themselves candidates for a higher, holier, and more comprehensive

union than that which had subsisted from the birth of time under the

form of the connubial tie. Others hastened to the vaults of banks and

to the coffers of the rich—all of which were opened to the first comer

on this fated occasion—and brought entire bales of paper-money to

enliven the blaze, and tons of coin to be melted down by its intensity.

Henceforth, they said, universal benevolence, uncoined and exhaustless,

was to be the golden currency of the world.

At this intelligence the

bankers and speculators in the stocks grew pale, and a pickpocket, who

had reaped a rich harvest among the crowd, fell down in a deadly

fainting fit. A few men of business burned their day-books and ledgers,

the notes and obligations of their creditors, and all other evidences

of debts due to themselves; while perhaps a somewhat larger number

satisfied their zeal for reform with the sacrifice of any uncomfortable

recollection of their own indebtment. There was then a cry that the

period was arrived when the title-deeds of landed property should be

given to the flames, and the whole soil of the earth revert to the

public, from whom it had been wrongfully abstracted and most unequally

distributed among individuals. Another party demanded that all written

constitutions, set forms of government, legislative acts,

statute-books, and everything else on which human invention had

endeavored to stamp its arbitrary laws, should at once be destroyed,

leaving the consummated world as free as the man first created.

Whether any ultimate action was taken with regard to these propositions

is beyond my knowledge; for, just then, some matters were in progress

that concerned my sympathies more nearly.

“See! see! What heaps of books and pamphlets!” cried a fellow, who did

not seem to be a lover of literature. “Now we shall have a glorious

blaze!”

“That’s just the thing!” said a modern philosopher. “Now we shall get

rid of the weight of dead men’s thought, which has hitherto pressed so

heavily on the living intellect that it has been incompetent to any

effectual self-exertion. Well done, my lads! Into the fire with them!

Now you are enlightening the world indeed!”

“But what is to become of the trade?” cried a frantic bookseller.

“O, by all means, let them accompany their merchandise,” coolly

observed an author. “It will be a noble funeral-pile!”

The truth was, that the human race had now reached a stage of progress

so far beyond what the wisest and wittiest men of former ages had ever

dreamed of, that it would have been a manifest absurdity to allow the

earth to be any longer encumbered with their poor achievements in the

literary line. Accordingly a thorough and searching investigation had

swept the booksellers’ shops, hawkers’ stands, public and private

libraries, and even the little book-shelf by the country fireside, and

had brought the world’s entire mass of printed paper, bound or in

sheets, to swell the already mountain bulk of our illustrious bonfire.

Thick, heavy folios, containing the labors of lexicographers,

commentators, and encyclopedists, were flung in, and, falling among the

embers with a leaden thump, smouldered away to ashes like rotten wood.

The small, richly gilt French tomes of the last age, with the hundred

volumes of Voltaire among them, went off in a brilliant shower of

sparkles and little jets of flame; while the current literature of the

same nation burned red and blue, and threw an infernal light over the

visages of the spectators, converting them all to the aspect of

party-colored fiends. A collection of German stories emitted a scent of

brimstone. The English standard authors made excellent fuel, generally

exhibiting the properties of sound oak logs. Milton’s works, in

particular, sent up a powerful blaze, gradually reddening into a coal,

which promised to endure longer than almost any other material of the

pile. From Shakespeare there gushed a flame of such marvellous splendor

that men shaded their eyes as against the sun’s meridian glory; nor

even when the works of his own elucidators were flung upon him did he

cease to flash forth a dazzling radiance from beneath the ponderous

heap. It is my belief that he is still blazing as fervidly as ever.

“Could a poet but light a lamp at that glorious flame,” remarked I, “he

might then consume the midnight oil to some good purpose.”

“That is the very thing which modern poets have been too apt to do, or

at least to attempt,” answered a critic. “The chief benefit to be

expected from this conflagration of past literature undoubtedly is,

that writers will henceforth be compelled to light their lamps at the

sun or stars.”

“If they can reach so high,” said I; “but that task requires a giant,

who may afterwards distribute the light among inferior men. It is not

every one that can steal the fire from heaven like Prometheus; but,

when once he had done the deed, a thousand hearths were kindled by it.”

It amazed me much to observe how indefinite was the proportion between

the physical mass of any given author and the property of brilliant and

long-continued combustion. For instance, there was not a quarto volume

of the last century—nor, indeed, of the present—that could compete in

that particular with a child’s little gilt-covered book, containing

_Mother Goose’s Melodies_. _The Life and Death of Tom Thumb_ outlasted

the biography of Marlborough. An epic, indeed a dozen of them, was

converted to white ashes before the single sheet of an old ballad was

half consumed.

In more than one case, too, when volumes of applauded

verse proved incapable of anything better than a stifling smoke, an

unregarded ditty of some nameless bard—perchance in the corner of a

newspaper—soared up among the stars with a flame as brilliant as their

own. Speaking of the properties of flame, methought Shelley’s poetry

emitted a purer light than almost any other productions of his day,

contrasting beautifully with the fitful and lurid gleams and gushes of

black vapor that flashed and eddied from the volumes of Lord Byron. As

for Tom Moore, some of his songs diffused an odor like a burning

pastil.

I felt particular interest in watching the combustion of American

authors, and scrupulously noted by my watch the precise number of

moments that changed most of them from shabbily printed books to

indistinguishable ashes. It would be invidious, however, if not

perilous, to betray these awful secrets; so that I shall content myself

with observing that it was not invariably the writer most frequent in

the public mouth that made the most splendid appearance in the bonfire.

I especially remember that a great deal of excellent inflammability was

exhibited in a thin volume of poems by Ellery Channing; although, to

speak the truth, there were certain portions that hissed and spluttered

in a very disagreeable fashion. A curious phenomenon occurred in

reference to several writers, native as well as foreign. Their books,

though of highly respectable figure, instead of bursting into a blaze

or even smouldering out their substance in smoke, suddenly melted away

in a manner that proved them to be ice.

If it be no lack of modesty to mention my own works, it must here be

confessed that I looked for them with fatherly interest, but in vain.

Too probably they were changed to vapor by the first action of the

heat; at best, I can only hope that, in their quiet way, they

contributed a glimmering spark or two to the splendor of the evening.

“Alas! and woe is me!” thus bemoaned himself a heavy-looking gentleman

in green spectacles. “The world is utterly ruined, and there is nothing

to live for any longer. The business of my life is snatched from me.

Not a volume to be had for love or money!”

“This,” remarked the sedate observer beside me, “is a bookworm,—one of

those men who are born to gnaw dead thoughts. His clothes, you see, are

covered with the dust of libraries. He has no inward fountain of ideas;

and, in good earnest, now that the old stock is abolished, I do not see

what is to become of the poor fellow.

Have you no word of comfort for

him?”

“My dear sir,” said I to the desperate bookworm, “is not nature better

than a book? Is not the human heart deeper than any system of

philosophy? Is not life replete with more instruction than past

observers have found it possible to write down in maxims? Be of good

cheer. The great book of Time is still spread wide open before us; and,

if we read it aright, it will be to us a volume of eternal truth.”

“O, my books, my books, my precious printed books!” reiterated the

forlorn bookworm. “My only reality was a bound volume; and now they

will not leave me even a shadowy pamphlet!”

In fact, the last remnant of the literature of all the ages was now

descending upon the blazing heap in the shape of a cloud of pamphlets

from the press of the New World. These likewise were consumed in the

twinkling of an eye, leaving the earth, for the first time since the

days of Cadmus, free from the plague of letters,—an enviable field for

the authors of the next generation.

“Well, and does anything remain to be done?” inquired I, somewhat

anxiously. “Unless we set fire to the earth itself, and then leap

boldly off into infinite space, I know not that we can carry reform to

any farther point.”

“You are vastly mistaken, my good friend,” said the observer. “Believe

me, the fire will not be allowed to settle down without the addition of

fuel that will startle many persons who have lent a willing hand thus

far.”

Nevertheless there appeared to be a relaxation of effort for a little

time, during which, probably, the leaders of the movement were

considering what should be done next. In the interval, a philosopher

threw his theory into the flames,—a sacrifice which, by those who knew

how to estimate it, was pronounced the most remarkable that had yet

been made. The combustion, however, was by no means brilliant. Some

indefatigable people, scorning to take a moment’s ease, now employed

themselves in collecting all the withered leaves and fallen boughs of

the forest, and thereby recruited the bonfire to a greater height than

ever. But this was mere by-play.

“Here comes the fresh fuel that I spoke of,” said my companion.

To my astonishment the persons who now advanced into the vacant space

around the mountain fire bore surplices and other priestly garments,

mitres, crosiers, and a confusion of Popish and Protestant emblems with

which it seemed their purpose to consummate the great act of faith.

Crosses from the spires of old cathedrals were cast upon the heap with

as little remorse as if the reverence of centuries passing in long

array beneath the lofty towers had not looked up to them as the holiest

of symbols. The font in which infants were consecrated to God, the

sacramental vessels whence piety received the hallowed draught, were

given to the same destruction. Perhaps it most nearly touched my heart

to see among these devoted relics fragments of the humble

communion-tables and undecorated pulpits which I recognized as having

been torn from the meeting-houses of New England. Those simple edifices

might have been permitted to retain all of sacred embellishment that

their Puritan founders had bestowed, even though the mighty structure

of St. Peter’s had sent its spoils to the fire of this terrible

sacrifice. Yet I felt that these were but the externals of religion,

and might most safely be relinquished by spirits that best knew their

deep significance.

“All is well,” said I, cheerfully. “The wood-paths shall be the aisles

of our cathedral, the firmament itself shall be its ceiling. What needs

an earthly roof between the Deity and his worshippers? Our faith can

well afford to lose all the drapery that even the holiest men have

thrown around it, and be only the more sublime in its simplicity.”

“True,” said my companion; “but will they pause here?”

The doubt implied in his question was well founded. In the general

destruction of books already described, a holy volume, that stood apart

from the catalogue of human literature, and yet, in one sense, was at

its head, had been spared. But the Titan of innovation,—angel or fiend,

double in his nature, and capable of deeds befitting both

characters,—at first shaking down only the old and rotten shapes of

things, had now, as it appeared, laid his terrible hand upon the main

pillars which supported the whole edifice of our moral and spiritual

state. The inhabitants of the earth had grown too enlightened to define

their faith within a form of words, or to limit the spiritual by any

analogy to our material existence. Truths which the heavens trembled at

were now but a fable of the world’s infancy.

Therefore, as the final

sacrifice of human error, what else remained to be thrown upon the

embers of that awful pile, except the book which, though a celestial

revelation to past ages, was but a voice from a lower sphere as

regarded the present race of man? It was done! Upon the blazing heap of

falsehood and worn-out truth—things that the earth had never needed, or

had ceased to need, or had grown childishly weary of—fell the ponderous

church Bible, the great old volume that had lain so long on the cushion

of the pulpit, and whence the pastor’s solemn voice had given holy

utterance on so many a Sabbath day. There, likewise, fell the family

Bible, which the long-buried patriarch had read to his children,—in

prosperity or sorrow, by the fireside and in the summer shade of

trees,—and had bequeathed downward as the heirloom of generations.

There fell the bosom Bible, the little volume that had been the soul’s

friend of some sorely tried child of dust, who thence took courage,

whether his trial were for life or death, steadfastly confronting both

in the strong assurance of immortality.

All these were flung into the fierce and riotous blaze; and then a

mighty wind came roaring across the plain with a desolate howl, as if

it were the angry lamentation of the earth for the loss of heaven’s

sunshine; and it shook the gigantic pyramid of flame and scattered the

cinders of half-consumed abominations around upon the spectators.

“This is terrible!” said I, feeling that my check grew pale, and seeing

a like change in the visages about me.

“Be of good courage yet,” answered the man with whom I had so often

spoken. He continued to gaze steadily at the spectacle with a singular

calmness, as if it concerned him merely as an observer. “Be of good

courage, nor yet exult too much; for there is far less both of good and

evil in the effect of this bonfire than the world might be willing to

believe.”

“How can that be?” exclaimed I, impatiently. “Has it not consumed

everything? Has it not swallowed up or melted down every human or

divine appendage of our mortal state that had substance enough to be

acted on by fire? Will there be anything left us to-morrow morning

better or worse than a heap of embers and ashes?”

“Assuredly there will,” said my grave friend. “Come hither to-morrow

morning, or whenever the combustible portion of the pile shall be quite

burned out, and you will find among the ashes everything really

valuable that you have seen cast into the flames.

Trust me, the world

of to-morrow will again enrich itself with the gold and diamonds which

have been cast off by the world of today. Not a truth is destroyed nor

buried so deep among the ashes but it will be raked up at last.”

This was a strange assurance. Yet I felt inclined to credit it, the

more especially as I beheld among the wallowing flames a copy of the

Holy Scriptures, the pages of which, instead of being blackened into

tinder, only assumed a more dazzling whiteness as the fingermarks of

human imperfection were purified away. Certain marginal notes and

commentaries, it is true, yielded to the intensity of the fiery test,

but without detriment to the smallest syllable that had flamed from the

pen of inspiration.

“Yes; there is the proof of what you say,” answered I, turning to the

observer; “but if only what is evil can feel the action of the fire,

then, surely, the conflagration has been of inestimable utility. Yet,

if I understand aright, you intimate a doubt whether the world’s

expectation of benefit would be realized by it.”

“Listen to the talk of these worthies,” said he, pointing to a group in

front of the blazing pile; “possibly they may teach you something

useful, without intending it.”

The persons whom he indicated consisted of that brutal and most earthy

figure who had stood forth so furiously in defence of the gallows,—the

hangman, in short,—together with the last thief and the last murderer,

all three of whom were clustered about the last toper. The latter was

liberally passing the brandy bottle, which he had rescued from the

general destruction of wines and spirits. This little convivial party

seemed at the lowest pitch of despondency, as considering that the

purified world must needs be utterly unlike the sphere that they had

hitherto known, and therefore but a strange and desolate abode for

gentlemen of their kidney.

“The best counsel for all of us is,” remarked the hangman, “that, as

soon as we have finished the last drop of liquor, I help you, my three

friends, to a comfortable end upon the nearest tree, and then hang

myself on the same bough. This is no world for us any longer.”

“Poh, poh, my good fellows!” said a dark-complexioned personage, who

now joined the group,—his complexion was indeed fearfully dark, and his

eyes glowed with a redder light than that of the bonfire; “be not so

cast down, my dear friends; you shall see good days yet.

There is one

thing that these wiseacres have forgotten to throw into the fire, and

without which all the rest of the conflagration is just nothing at all;

yes, though they had burned the earth itself to a cinder.”

“And what may that be?” eagerly demanded the last murderer.

“What but the human heart itself?” said the dark-visaged stranger, with

a portentous grin. “And, unless they hit upon some method of purifying

that foul cavern, forth from it will reissue all the shapes of wrong

and misery—the same old shapes or worse ones—which they have taken such

a vast deal of trouble to consume to ashes. I have stood by this

livelong night and laughed in my sleeve at the whole business. O, take

my word for it, it will be the old world yet!”

This brief conversation supplied me with a theme for lengthened

thought. How sad a truth, if true it were, that man’s age-long endeavor

for perfection had served only to render him the mockery of the evil

principle, from the fatal circumstance of an error at the very root of

the matter! The heart, the heart, there was the little yet boundless

sphere wherein existed the original wrong of which the crime and misery

of this outward world were merely types. Purify that inward sphere, and

the many shapes of evil that haunt the outward, and which now seem

almost our only realities, will turn to shadowy phantoms and vanish of

their own accord; but if we go no deeper than the intellect, and

strive, with merely that feeble instrument, to discern and rectify what

is wrong, our whole accomplishment will be a dream, so unsubstantial

that it matters little whether the bonfire, which I have so faithfully

described, were what we choose to call a real event and a flame that

would scorch the finger, or only a phosphoric radiance and a parable of

my own brain.

Chapter 22.

PASSAGES FROM A RELINQUISHED WORK.

AT HOME.

From infancy I was under the guardianship of a village parson, who made

me the subject of daily prayer and the sufferer of innumerable stripes,

using no distinction, as to these marks of paternal love, between

myself and his own three boys. The result, it must be owned, has been

very different in their cases and mine, they being all respectable men

and well settled in life; the eldest as the successor to his father’s

pulpit, the second as a physician, and the third as a partner in a

wholesale shoe-store; while I, with better prospects than either of

them, have run the course which this volume will describe.

Yet there is

room for doubt whether I should have been any better contented with

such success as theirs than with my own misfortunes,—at least, till

after my experience of the latter had made it too late for another

trial.

My guardian had a name of considerable eminence, and fitter for the

place it occupies in ecclesiastical history than for so frivolous a

page as mine. In his own vicinity, among the lighter part of his

hearers, he was called Parson Thumpcushion, from the very forcible

gestures with which he illustrated his doctrines. Certainly, if his

powers as a preacher were to be estimated by the damage done to his

pulpit-furniture, none of his living brethren, and but few dead ones,

would have been worthy even to pronounce a benediction after him. Such

pounding and expounding the moment he began to grow warm, such slapping

with his open palm, thumping with his closed fist, and banging with the

whole weight of the great Bible, convinced me that he held, in

imagination, either the Old Nick or some Unitarian infidel at bay, and

belabored his unhappy cushion as proxy for those abominable

adversaries. Nothing but this exercise of the body while delivering his

sermons could have supported the good parson’s health under the mental

toil which they cost him in composition.

Though Parson Thumpcushion had an upright heart, and some called it a

warm one, he was invariably stern and severe, on principle, I suppose,

to me. With late justice, though early enough, even now, to be

tinctured with generosity I acknowledge him to have been a good and

wise man after his own fashion. If his management failed as to myself,

it succeeded with his three sons; nor, I must frankly say, could any

mode of education with which it was possible for him to be acquainted

have made me much better than what I was or led me to a happier fortune

than the present. He could neither change the nature that God gave me

nor adapt his own inflexible mind to my peculiar character. Perhaps it

was my chief misfortune that I had neither father nor mother alive; for

parents have an instinctive sagacity in regard to the welfare of their

children, and the child feels a confidence both in the wisdom and

affection of his parents which he cannot transfer to any delegate of

their duties, however conscientious. An orphan’s fate is hard, be he

rich or poor. As for Parson Thumpcushion, whenever I see the old

gentleman in my dreams he looks kindly and sorrowfully at me, holding

out his hand as if each had something to forgive.

With such kindness

and such forgiveness, but without the sorrow, may our next meeting be!

I was a youth of gay and happy temperament, with an incorrigible levity

of spirit, of no vicious propensities, sensible enough, but wayward and

fanciful. What a character was this to be brought in contact with the

stern old Pilgrim spirit of my guardian! We were at variance on a

thousand points; but our chief and final dispute arose from the

pertinacity with which he insisted on my adopting a particular

profession; while I, being heir to a moderate competence, had avowed my

purpose of keeping aloof from the regular business of life. This would

have been a dangerous resolution anywhere in the world; it was fatal in

New England. There is a grossness in the conceptions of my countrymen;

they will not be convinced that any good thing may consist with what

they call idleness; they can anticipate nothing but evil of a young man

who neither studies physic, law, nor gospel, nor opens a store, nor

takes to farming, but manifests an incomprehensible disposition to be

satisfied with what his father left him. The principle is excellent in

its general influence, but most miserable in its effect on the few that

violate it. I had a quick sensitiveness to public opinion, and felt as

if it ranked me with the tavern haunters and town paupers,—with the

drunken poet who hawked his own Fourth of July odes, and the broken

soldier who had been good for nothing since last war. The consequence

of all this was a piece of light-hearted desperation.

I do not over-estimate my notoriety when I take it for granted that

many of my readers must have heard of me in the wild way of life which

I adopted. The idea of becoming a wandering story-teller had been

suggested, a year or two before, by an encounter with several merry

vagabonds in a showman’s wagon, where they and I had sheltered

ourselves during a summer shower. The project was not more extravagant

than most which a young man forms. Stranger ones are executed every

day; and, not to mention my prototypes in the East, and the wandering

orators and poets whom my own ears have heard, I had the example of one

illustrious itinerant in the other hemisphere,—of Goldsmith, who

planned and performed his travels through France and Italy on a less

promising scheme than mine. I took credit to myself for various

qualifications, mental and personal, suited to the undertaking.

Besides, my mind had latterly tormented me for employment, keeping up

an irregular activity even in sleep, and making me conscious that I

must toil, if it were but in catching butterflies. But my chief motives

were, discontent with home and a bitter grudge against Parson

Thumpcushion, who would rather have laid me in my father’s tomb than

seen me either a novelist or an actor, two characters which I thus hit

upon a method of uniting. After all, it was not half so foolish as if I

had written romances instead of reciting them.

The following pages will contain a picture of my vagrant life,

intermixed with specimens, generally brief and slight, of that great

mass of fiction to which I gave existence, and which has vanished like

cloud-shapes. Besides the occasions when I sought a pecuniary reward, I

was accustomed to exercise my narrative faculty wherever chance had

collected a little audience idle enough to listen. These rehearsals

were useful in testing the strong points of my stories; and, indeed,

the flow of fancy soon came upon me so abundantly that its indulgence

was its own reward, though the hope of praise also became a powerful

incitement. Since I shall never feel the warm gush of new thought as I

did then, let me beseech the reader to believe that my tales were not

always so cold as he may find them now. With each specimen will be

given a sketch of the circumstances in which the story was told. Thus

my air-drawn pictures will be set in frames perhaps more valuable than

the pictures themselves, since they will be embossed with groups of

characteristic figures, amid the lake and mountain scenery, the

villages and fertile fields, of our native land. But I write the book

for the sake of its moral, which many a dreaming youth may profit by,

though it is the experience of a wandering story-teller.

A FLIGHT IN THE FOG.

I set out on my rambles one morning in June about sunrise. The day

promised to be fair, though at that early hour a heavy mist lay along

the earth and settled in minute globules on the folds of my clothes, so

that I looked precisely as if touched with a hoar-frost. The sky was

quite obscured, and the trees and houses invisible till they grew out

of the fog as I came close upon them. There is a hill towards the west

whence the road goes abruptly down, holding a level course through the

village and ascending an eminence on the other side, behind which it

disappears. The whole view comprises an extent of half a mile.

Here I

paused; and, while gazing through the misty veil, it partially rose and

swept away with so sudden an effect that a gray cloud seemed to have

taken the aspect of a small white town. A thin vapor being still

diffused through the atmosphere, the wreaths and pillars of fog,

whether hung in air or based on earth, appeared not less substantial

than the edifices, and gave their own indistinctness to the whole. It

was singular that such an unromantic scene should look so visionary.

Half of the parson’s dwelling was a dingy white house, and half of it

was a cloud; but Squire Moody’s mansion, the grandest in the village,

was wholly visible, even the lattice-work of the balcony under the

front window; while in another place only two red chimneys were seen

above the mist, appertaining to my own paternal residence, then

tenanted by strangers. I could not remember those with whom I had dwelt

there, not even my mother. The brick edifice of the bank was in the

clouds; the foundations of what was to be a great block of buildings

had vanished, ominously, as it proved; the dry-goods store of Mr.

Nightingale seemed a doubtful concern; and Dominicus Pike’s tobacco

manufactory an affair of smoke, except the splendid image of an Indian

chief in front. The white spire of the meeting-house ascended out of

the densest heap of vapor, as if that shadowy base were its only

support: or, to give a truer interpretation, the steeple was the emblem

of Religion, enveloped in mystery below, yet pointing to a cloudless

atmosphere, and catching the brightness of the east on its gilded vane.

As I beheld these objects, and the dewy street, with grassy intervals

and a border of trees between the wheeltrack and the sidewalks, all so

indistinct, and not to be traced without an effort, the whole seemed

more like memory than reality. I would have imagined that years had

already passed, and I was far away, contemplating that dim picture of

my native place, which I should retain in my mind through the mist of

time. No tears fell from my eyes among the dewdrops of the morning; nor

does it occur to me that I heaved a sigh. In truth, I had never felt

such a delicious excitement nor known what freedom was till that moment

when I gave up my home and took the whole world in exchange, fluttering

the wings of my spirit as if I would have flown from one star to

another through the universe. I waved my hand towards the dusky

village, bade it a joyous farewell, and turned away to follow any path

but that which might lead me back.

Never was Childe Harold’s sentiment

adopted in a spirit more unlike his own.

Naturally enough, I thought of Don Quixote. Recollecting how the knight

and Sancho had watched for auguries when they took the road to Toboso,

I began, between jest and earnest, to feel a similar anxiety. It was

gratified, and by a more poetical phenomenon than the braying of the

dappled ass or the neigh of Rosinante. The sun, then just above the

horizon, shone faintly through the fog, and formed a species of rainbow

in the west, bestriding my intended road like a gigantic portal. I had

never known before that a bow could be generated between the sunshine

and the morning mist. It had no brilliancy, no perceptible hues, but

was a mere unpainted framework, as white and ghostlike as the lunar

rainbow, which is deemed ominous of evil. But, with a light heart, to

which all omens were propitious, I advanced beneath the misty archway

of futurity.

I had determined not to enter on my profession within a hundred miles

of home, and then to cover myself with a fictitious name. The first

precaution was reasonable enough, as otherwise Parson Thumpcushion

might have put an untimely catastrophe to my story; but as nobody would

be much affected by my disgrace, and all was to be suffered in my own

person, I know not why I cared about a name. For a week or two I

travelled almost at random, seeking hardly any guidance except the

whirling of a leaf at, some turn of the road, or the green bough that

beckoned me, or the naked branch that pointed its withered finger

onward. All my care was to be farther from home each night than the

preceding morning.

A FELLOW-TRAVELLER.

One day at noontide, when the sun had burst suddenly out of a cloud,

and threatened to dissolve me, I looked round for shelter, whether of

tavern, cottage, barn, or shady tree. The first which offered itself

was a wood,—not a forest, but a trim plantation of young oaks, growing

just thick enough to keep the mass of sunshine out, while they admitted

a few straggling beams, and thus produced the most cheerful gloom

imaginable. A brook, so small and clear, and apparently so cool, that I

wanted to drink it up, ran under the road through a little arch of

stone without once meeting the sun in its passage from the shade on one

side to the shade on the other. As there was a stepping-place over the

stone wall and a path along the rivulet, I followed it and discovered

its source,—a spring gushing out of an old barrel.

In this pleasant spot I saw a light pack suspended from the branch of a

tree, a stick leaning against the trunk, and a person seated on the

grassy verge of the spring, with his back towards me. He was a slender

figure, dressed in black broadcloth, which was none of the finest nor

very fashionably cut. On hearing my footsteps he started up rather

nervously, and, turning round, showed the face of a young man about my

own age, with his finger in a volume which he had been reading till my

intrusion. His book was evidently a pocket Bible. Though I piqued

myself at that period on my great penetration into people’s characters

and pursuits, I could not decide whether this young man in black were

an unfledged divine from Andover, a college student, or preparing for

college at some academy. In either case I would quite as willingly have

found a merrier companion; such, for instance, as the comedian with

whom Gil Blas shared his dinner beside a fountain in Spain.

After a nod, which was duly returned, I made a goblet of oak-leaves,

filled and emptied it two or three times, and then remarked, to hit the

stranger’s classical associations, that this beautiful fountain ought

to flow from an urn instead of an old barrel. He did not show that he

understood the allusion, and replied very briefly, with a shyness that

was quite out of place between persons who met in such circumstances.

Had he treated my next observation in the same way, we should have

parted without another word.

“It is very singular,” said I,—“though doubtless there are good reasons

for it,—that Nature should provide drink so abundantly, and lavish it

everywhere by the roadside, but so seldom anything to eat. Why should

not we find a loaf of bread on this tree as well as a barrel of good

liquor at the foot of it?”

“There is a loaf of bread on the tree,” replied the stranger, without

even smiling—at a coincidence which made me laugh. “I have something to

eat in my bundle; and, if you can make a dinner with me, you shall be

welcome.”

“I accept your offer with pleasure,” said I. “A pilgrim such as I am

must not refuse a providential meal.”

The young man had risen to take his bundle from the branch of the tree,

but now turned round and regarded me with great earnestness, coloring

deeply at the same time. However, he said nothing, and produced part of

a loaf of bread and some cheese, the former being evidently home baked,

though some days out of the oven. The fare was good enough, with a real

welcome, such as his appeared to be.

After spreading these articles on

the stump of a tree, he proceeded to ask a blessing on our food, an

unexpected ceremony, and quite an impressive one at our woodland table,

with the fountain gushing beside us and the bright sky glimmering

through the boughs; nor did his brief petition affect me less because

his embarrassment made his voice tremble. At the end of the meal he

returned thanks with the same tremulous fervor.

He felt a natural kindness for me after thus relieving my necessities,

and showed it by becoming less reserved. On my part, I professed never

to have relished a dinner better; and, in requital of the stranger’s

hospitality, solicited the pleasure of his company to supper.

“Where? At your home?” asked he.

“Yes,” said I, smiling.

“Perhaps our roads are not the same,” observed he.

“O, I can take any road but one, and yet not miss my way,” answered I.

“This morning I breakfasted at home; I shall sup at home to-night; and

a moment ago I dined at home. To be sure, there was a certain place

which I called home; but I have resolved not to see it again till I

have been quite round the globe and enter the street on the east as I

left it on the west. In the mean time, I have a home everywhere, or

nowhere, just as you please to take it.”

“Nowhere, then; for this transitory world is not our home,” said the

young man, with solemnity. “We are all pilgrims and wanderers; but it

is strange that we two should meet.”

I inquired the meaning of this remark, but could obtain no satisfactory

reply. But we had eaten salt together, and it was right that we should

form acquaintance after that ceremony as the Arabs of the desert do,

especially as he had learned something about myself, and the courtesy

of the country entitled me to as much information in return. I asked

whither he was travelling.

“I do not know,” said he; “but God knows.”

“That is strange!” exclaimed I; “not that God should know it, but that

you should not. And how is your road to be pointed out?”

“Perhaps by an inward conviction,” he replied, looking sideways at me

to discover whether I smiled; “perhaps by an outward sign.”

“Then, believe me,” said I, “the outward sign is already granted you,

and the inward conviction ought to follow. We are told of pious men in

old times who committed themselves to the care of Providence, and saw

the manifestation of its will in the slightest circumstances, as in the

shooting of a star, the flight of a bird, or the course taken by some

brute animal. Sometimes even a stupid ass was their guide.

May I not be

as good a one?”

“I do not know,” said the pilgrim, with perfect simplicity.

We did, however, follow the same road, and were not overtaken, as I

partly apprehended, by the keepers of any lunatic asylum in pursuit of

a stray patient. Perhaps the stranger felt as much doubt of my sanity

as I did of his, though certainly with less justice, since I was fully

aware of my own extravagances, while he acted as wildly, and deemed it

heavenly wisdom. We were a singular couple, strikingly contrasted, yet

curiously assimilated, each of us remarkable enough by himself, and

doubly so in the other’s company. Without any formal compact, we kept

together day after day till our union appeared permanent. Even had I

seen nothing to love and admire in him, I could never have thought of

deserting one who needed me continually; for I never knew a person; not

even a woman, so unfit to roam the world in solitude as he was,—so

painfully shy, so easily discouraged by slight obstacles, and so often

depressed by a weight within himself.

I was now far from my native place, but had not yet stepped before the

public. A slight tremor seized me whenever I thought of relinquishing

the immunities of a private character, and giving every man, and for

money too, the right which no man yet possessed, of treating me with

open scorn. But about a week after contracting the above alliance I

made my bow to an audience of nine persons, seven of whom hissed me in

a very disagreeable manner, and not without good cause. Indeed, the

failure was so signal that it would have been mere swindling to retain

the money, which had been paid on my implied contract to give its value

of amusement. So I called in the doorkeeper, bade him refund the whole

receipts, a mighty sum and was gratified with a round of applause by

way of offset to the hisses. This event would have looked most horrible

in anticipation,—a thing to make a man shoot himself, or run amuck, or

hide himself in caverns where he might not see his own burning blush;

but the reality was not so very hard to bear. It is a fact that I was

more deeply grieved by an almost parallel misfortune which happened to

my companion on the same evening. In my own behalf I was angry and

excited, not depressed; my blood ran quick, my spirits rose buoyantly,

and I had never felt such a confidence of future success and

determination to achieve it as at that trying moment. I resolved to

persevere, if it were only to wring the reluctant praise from my

enemies.

Hitherto I had immensely underrated the difficulties of my idle trade;

now I recognized that it demanded nothing short of my whole powers

cultivated to the utmost, and exerted with the same prodigality as if I

were speaking for a great party or for the nation at large on the floor

of the Capitol. No talent or attainment could come amiss; everything,

indeed, was requisite,—wide observation, varied knowledge, deep

thoughts, and sparkling ones; pathos and levity, and a mixture of both,

like sunshine in a raindrop; lofty imagination, veiling itself in the

garb of common life; and the practised art which alone could render

these gifts, and more than these, available. Not that I ever hoped to

be thus qualified. But my despair was no ignoble one; for, knowing the

impossibility of satisfying myself, even should the world be satisfied,

I did my best to overcome it; investigated the causes of every defect;

and strove, with patient stubbornness, to remove them in the next

attempt. It is one of my few sources of pride, that, ridiculous as the

object was, I followed it up with the firmness and energy of a man.

I manufactured a great variety of plots and skeletons of tales, and

kept them ready for use, leaving the filling up to the inspiration of

the moment; though I cannot remember ever to have told a tale which did

not vary considerably from my preconceived idea, and acquire a novelty

of aspect as often as I repeated it. Oddly enough, my success was

generally in proportion to the difference between the conception and

accomplishment. I provided two or more commencements and catastrophes

to many of the tales,—a happy expedient, suggested by the double sets

of sleeves and trimmings which diversified the suits in Sir Piercy

Shafton’s wardrobe. But my best efforts had a unity, a wholeness, and a

separate character that did not admit of this sort of mechanism.

THE VILLAGE THEATRE.

About the first of September my fellow-traveller and myself arrived at

a country town, where a small company of actors, on their return from a

summer’s campaign in the British Provinces, were giving a series of

dramatic exhibitions. A moderately sized hall of the tavern had been

converted into a theatre. The performances that evening were, The Heir

at Law, and No Song, no Supper, with the recitation of Alexander’s

Feast between the play and farce. The house was thin and dull.

But the

next day there appeared to be brighter prospects, the playbills

announcing at every corner, on the town-pump, and—awful sacrilege!—on

the very door of the meeting-house, an Unprecedented Attraction! After

setting forth the ordinary entertainments of a theatre, the public were

informed, in the hugest type that the printing-office could supply,

that the manager had been fortunate enough to accomplish an engagement

with the celebrated Story-Teller. He would make his first appearance

that evening, and recite his famous tale of Mr. Higginbotham’s

Catastrophe, which had been received with rapturous applause by

audiences in all the principal cities. This outrageous flourish of

trumpets, be it known, was wholly unauthorized by me, who had merely

made an engagement for a single evening, without assuming any more

celebrity than the little I possessed. As for the tale, it could hardly

have been applauded by rapturous audiences, being as yet an unfilled

plot; nor even when I stepped upon the stage was it decided whether Mr.

Higginbotham should live or die.

In two or three places, underneath the flaming bills which announced

the Story-Teller, was pasted a small slip of paper, giving notice, in

tremulous characters, of a religious meeting to be held at the

school-house, where, with divine permission, Eliakim Abbott would

address sinners on the welfare of their immortal souls.

In the evening, after the commencement of the tragedy of Douglas, I

took a ramble through the town to quicken my ideas by active motion. My

spirits were good, with a certain glow of mind which I had already

learned to depend upon as the sure prognostic of success. Passing a

small and solitary school-house, where a light was burning dimly and a

few people were entering the door, I went in with them, and saw my

friend Eliakim at the desk. He had collected about fifteen hearers,

mostly females. Just as I entered he was beginning to pray in accents

so low and interrupted that he seemed to doubt the reception of his

efforts both with God and man. There was room for distrust in regard to

the latter. At the conclusion of the prayer several of the little

audience went out, leaving him to begin his discourse under such

discouraging circumstances, added to his natural and agonizing

diffidence. Knowing that my presence on these occasions increased his

embarrassment, I had stationed myself in a dusky place near the door,

and now stole softly out.

On my return to the tavern the tragedy was already concluded; and,

being a feeble one in itself and indifferently performed, it left so

much the better chance for the Story-Teller. The bar was thronged with

customers, the toddy-stick keeping a continual tattoo; while in the

hall there was a broad, deep, buzzing sound, with an occasional peal of

impatient thunder,—all symptoms of all overflowing house and an eager

audience. I drank a glass of wine-and-water, and stood at the side

scene conversing with a young person of doubtful sex. If a gentleman,

how could he have performed the singing girl the night before in No

Song, no Supper? Or, if a lady, why did she enact Young Norval, and now

wear a green coat and white pantaloons in the character of Little

Pickle? In either case the dress was pretty and the wearer bewitching;

so that, at the proper moment, I stepped forward with a gay heart and a

hold one; while the orchestra played a tune that had resounded at many

a country ball, and the curtain, as it rose, discovered something like

a country bar-room. Such a scene was well enough adapted to such a

tale.

The orchestra of our little theatre consisted of two fiddles and a

clarinet; but, if the whole harmony of the Tremont had been there, it

might have swelled in vain beneath the tumult of applause that greeted

me. The good people of the town, knowing that the world contained

innumerable persons of celebrity undreamed of by them, took it for

granted that I was one, and that their roar of welcome was but a feeble

echo of those which had thundered around me in lofty theatres. Such an

enthusiastic uproar was never heard. Each person seemed a Briarcus

clapping a hundred hands, besides keeping his feet and several cudgels

in play with stamping and thumping on the floor; while the ladies

flourished their white cambric handkerchiefs, intermixed with yellow

and red bandanna, like the flags of different nations. After such a

salutation, the celebrated Story-Teller felt almost ashamed to produce

so humble an affair as Mr. Higginbotham’s Catastrophe.

This story was originally more dramatic than as there presented, and

afforded good scope for mimicry and buffoonery, neither of which, to my

shame, did I spare. I never knew the “magic of a name” till I used that

of Mr. Higginbotham. Often as I repeated it, there were louder bursts

of merriment than those which responded to what, in my opinion, were

more legitimate strokes of humor.

The success of the piece was

incalculably heightened by a stiff cue of horsehair, which Little

Pickle, in the spirit of that mischief-loving character, had fastened

to my collar, where, unknown to me, it kept making the queerest

gestures of its own in correspondence with all mine. The audience,

supposing that some enormous joke was appended to this long tail

behind, were ineffably delighted, and gave way to such a tumult of

approbation that, just as the story closed, the benches broke beneath

them and left one whole row of my admirers on the floor. Even in that

predicament they continued their applause. In after times, when I had

grown a bitter moralizer, I took this scene for an example how much of

fame is humbug; how much the meed of what our better nature blushes at;

how much an accident; how much bestowed on mistaken principles; and how

small and poor the remnant. From pit and boxes there was now a

universal call for the Story-Teller.

That celebrated personage came not when they did call to him. As I left

the stage, the landlord, being also the postmaster, had given me a

letter with the postmark of my native village, and directed to my

assumed name in the stiff old handwriting of Parson Thumpcushion.

Doubtless he had heard of the rising renown of the Story-Teller, and

conjectured at once that such a nondescript luminary could be no other

than his lost ward. His epistle, though I never read it, affected me

most painfully. I seemed to see the Puritanic figure of my guardian

standing among the fripperies of the theatre and pointing to the

players,—the fantastic and effeminate men, the painted women, the giddy

girl in boy’s clothes, merrier than modest,—pointing to these with

solemn ridicule, and eying me with stern rebuke. His image was a type

of the austere duty, and they of the vanities of life.

I hastened with the letter to my chamber and held it unopened in my

hand, while the applause of my buffoonery yet sounded through the

theatre. Another train of thought came over me. The stern old man

appeared again, but now with the gentleness of sorrow, softening his

authority with love as a father might, and even bending his venerable

head, as if to say that my errors had an apology in his own mistaken

discipline. I strode twice across the chamber, then held the letter in

the flame of the candle, and beheld it consume unread. It is fixed in

my mind, and was so at the time, that he had addressed me in a style of

paternal wisdom, and love, and reconciliation which I could not have

resisted had I but risked the trial.

The thought still haunts me that

then I made my irrevocable choice between good and evil fate.

Meanwhile, as this occurrence had disturbed my mind and indisposed me

to the present exercise of my profession, I left the town, in spite of

a laudatory critique in the newspaper, and untempted by the liberal

offers of the manager. As we walked onward, following the same road, on

two such different errands, Eliakim groaned in spirit, and labored with

tears to convince me of the guilt and madness of my life.

Chapter 23.

SKETCHES FROM MEMORY.

THE NOTCH OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS.

It was now the middle of September. We had come since sunrise from

Bartlett, passing up through the valley of the Saco, which extends

between mountainous walls, sometimes with a steep ascent, but often as

level as a church-aisle. All that day and two preceding ones we had

been loitering towards the heart of the White Mountains,—those old

crystal hills, whose mysterious brilliancy had gleamed upon our distant

wanderings before we thought of visiting them. Height after height had

risen and towered one above another till the clouds began to hang below

the peaks. Down their slopes were the red pathways of the slides, those

avalanches of earth, stones, and trees, which descend into the hollows,

leaving vestiges of their track hardly to be effaced by the vegetation

of ages. We had mountains behind us and mountains on each side, and a

group of mightier ones ahead. Still our road went up along the Saco,

right towards the centre of that group, as if to climb above the clouds

in its passage to the farther region.

In old times the settlers used to be astounded by the inroads of the

Northern Indians, coming down upon them from this mountain rampart

through some defile known only to themselves. It is, indeed, a wondrous

path. A demon, it might be fancied, or one of the Titans, was

travelling up the valley, elbowing the heights carelessly aside as he

passed, till at length a great mountain took its stand directly across

his intended road. He tarries not for such an obstacle, but, rending it

asunder a thousand feet from peak to base, discloses its treasures of

hidden minerals, its sunless waters, all the secrets of the mountain’s

inmost heart, with a mighty fracture of rugged precipices on each side.

This is the Notch of the White Hills. Shame on me that I have attempted

to describe it by so mean an image, feeling, as I do, that it is one of

those symbolic scenes which lead the mind to the sentiment, though not

to the conception, of Omnipotence.

We had now reached a narrow passage, which showed almost the appearance

of having been cut by human strength and artifice in the solid rock.

There was a wall of granite on each side, high and precipitous,

especially on our right, and so smooth that a few evergreens could

hardly find foothold enough to grow there. This is the entrance, or, in

the direction we were going, the extremity, of the romantic defile of

the Notch. Before emerging from it, the rattling of wheels approached

behind us, and a stage-coach rumbled out of the mountain, with seats on

top and trunks behind, and a smart driver, in a drab great-coat,

touching the wheel-horses with the whip-stock and reigning in the

leaders. To my mind there was a sort of poetry in such an incident,

hardly inferior to what would have accompanied the painted array of an

Indian war-party gliding forth from the same wild chasm. All the

passengers, except a very fat lady on the back seat, had alighted. One

was a mineralogist, a scientific, green-spectacled figure in black,

bearing a heavy hammer, with which he did great damage to the

precipices, and put the fragments in his pocket. Another was a

well-dressed young man, who carried an operaglass set in gold, and

seemed to be making a quotation from some of Byron’s rhapsodies on

mountain scenery. There was also a trader, returning from Portland to

the upper part of Vermont; and a fair young girl, with a very faint

bloom like one of those pale and delicate flowers which sometimes occur

among alpine cliffs.

They disappeared, and we followed them, passing through a deep pine

forest, which for some miles allowed us to see nothing but its own

dismal shade. Towards nightfall we reached a level amphitheatre,

surrounded by a great rampart of hills, which shut out the sunshine

long before it left the external world. It was here that we obtained

our first view, except at a distance, of the principal group of

mountains. They are majestic, and even awful, when contemplated in a

proper mood, yet, by their breadth of base and the long ridges which

support them, give the idea of immense bulk rather than of towering

height. Mount Washington, indeed, looked near to Heaven: he was white

with snow a mile downward, and had caught the only cloud that was

sailing through the atmosphere to veil his head. Let us forget the

other names of American statesmen that have been stamped upon these

hills, but still call the loftiest WASHINGTON. Mountains are Earth’s

undecaying monuments.

They must stand while she endures, and never

should be consecrated to the mere great men of their own age and

country, but to the mighty ones alone, whose glory is universal, and

whom all time will render illustrious.

The air, not often sultry in this elevated region, nearly two thousand

feet above the sea, was now sharp and cold, like that of a clear

November evening in the lowlands. By morning, probably, there would be

a frost, if not a snowfall, on the grass and rye, and an icy surface

over the standing water. I was glad to perceive a prospect of

comfortable quarters in a house which we were approaching, and of

pleasant company in the guests who were assembled at the door.

OUR EVENING PARTY AMONG THE MOUNTAINS.

WE stood in front of a good substantial farm-house, of old date in that

wild country. A sign over the door denoted it to be the White Mountain

Post-Office,—an establishment which distributes letters and newspapers

to perhaps a score of persons, comprising the population of two or

three townships among the hills. The broad and weighty antlers of a

deer, “a stag of ten,” were fastened at the corner of the house; a

fox’s bushy tail was nailed beneath them; and a huge black paw lay on

the ground, newly severed and still bleeding, the trophy of a

bear-hunt. Among several persons collected about the doorsteps, the

most remarkable was a sturdy mountaineer, of six feet two, and

corresponding bulk, with a heavy set of features, such as might be

moulded on his own blacksmith’s anvil, but yet indicative of mother wit

and rough humor. As we appeared, he uplifted a tin trumpet, four or

five feet long, and blew a tremendous blast, either in honor of our

arrival or to awaken an echo from the opposite hill.

Ethan Crawford’s guests were of such a motley description as to form

quite a picturesque group, seldom seen together except at some place

like this, at once the pleasure-house of fashionable tourists and the

homely inn of country travellers. Among the company at the door were

the mineralogist and the owner of the gold operaglass whom we had

encountered in the Notch; two Georgian gentlemen, who had chilled their

Southern blood that morning on the top of Mount Washington; a physician

and his wife from Conway; a trader of Burlington and an old squire of

the Green Mountains; and two young married couples, all the way from

Massachusetts, on the matrimonial jaunt. Besides these strangers, the

rugged county of Coos, in which we were, was represented by half a

dozen wood-cutters, who had slain a bear in the forest and smitten off

his paw.

I had joined the party, and had a moment’s leisure to examine them

before the echo of Ethan’s blast returned from the hill. Not one, but

many echoes had caught up the harsh and tuneless sound, untwisted its

complicated threads, and found a thousand aerial harmonies in one stern

trumpet-tone. It was a distinct yet distant and dream-like symphony of

melodious instruments, as if an airy band had been hidden on the

hillside and made faint music at the summons. No subsequent trial

produced so clear, delicate, and spiritual a concert as the first. A

field-piece was then discharged from the top of a neighboring hill, and

gave birth to one long reverberation, which ran round the circle of

mountains in an unbroken chain of sound and rolled away without a

separate echo. After these experiments, the cold atmosphere drove us

all into the house, with the keenest appetites for supper.

It did one’s heart good to see the great fires that were kindled in the

parlor and bar-room, especially the latter, where the fireplace was

built of rough stone, and might have contained the trunk of an old tree

for a backlog.

A man keeps a comfortable hearth when his own forest is at his very

door. In the parlor, when the evening was fairly set in, we held our

hands before our eyes to shield them from the ruddy glow, and began a

pleasant variety of conversation. The mineralogist and the physician

talked about the invigorating qualities of the mountain air, and its

excellent effect on Ethan Crawford’s father, an old man of

seventy-five, with the unbroken frame of middle life. The two brides

and the doctor’s wife held a whispered discussion, which, by their

frequent titterings and a blush or two, seemed to have reference to the

trials or enjoyments of the matrimonial state. The bridegrooms sat

together in a corner, rigidly silent, like Quakers whom the spirit

moveth not, being still in the odd predicament of bashfulness towards

their own young wives. The Green Mountain squire chose me for his

companion, and described the difficulties he had met with half a

century ago in travelling from the Connecticut River through the Notch

to Conway, now a single day’s journey, though it had cost him eighteen.

The Georgians held the album between them, and favored us with the few

specimens of its contents, which they considered ridiculous enough to

be worth hearing. One extract met with deserved applause. It was a

“Sonnet to the Snow on Mount Washington,” and had been contributed that

very afternoon, bearing a signature of great distinction in magazines

and annuals.

The lines were elegant and full of fancy, but too remote

from familiar sentiment, and cold as their subject, resembling those

curious specimens of crystallized vapor which I observed next day on

the mountain-top. The poet was understood to be the young gentleman of

the gold opera-glass, who heard our laudatory remarks with the

composure of a veteran.

Such was our party, and such their ways of amusement. But on a winter

evening another set of guests assembled at the hearth where these

summer travellers were now sitting. I once had it in contemplation to

spend a month hereabouts, in sleighing-time, for the sake of studying

the yeomen of New England, who then elbow each other through the Notch

by hundreds, on their way to Portland. There could be no better school

for such a purpose than Ethan Crawford’s inn. Let the student go

thither in December, sit down with the teamsters at their meals, share

their evening merriment, and repose with them at night when every bed

has its three occupants, and parlor, bar-room, and kitchen are strewn

with slumberers around the fire. Then let him rise before daylight,

button his great-coat, muffle up his ears, and stride with the

departing caravan a mile or two, to see how sturdily they make head

against the blast. A treasure of characteristic traits will repay all

inconveniences, even should a frozen nose be of the number.

The conversation of our party soon became more animated and sincere,

and we recounted some traditions of the Indians, who believed that the

father and mother of their race were saved from a deluge by ascending

the peak of Mount Washington. The children of that pair have been

overwhelmed, and found no such refuge. In the mythology of the savage,

these mountains were afterwards considered sacred and inaccessible,

full of unearthly wonders, illuminated at lofty heights by the blaze of

precious stones, and inhabited by deities, who sometimes shrouded

themselves in the snow-storm and came down on the lower world. There

are few legends more poetical than that of the “Great Carbuncle” of the

White Mountains. The belief was communicated to the English settlers,

and is hardly yet extinct, that a gem, of such immense size as to be

seen shining miles away, hangs from a rock over a clear, deep lake,

high up among the hills. They who had once beheld its splendor were

enthralled with an unutterable yearning to possess it. But a spirit

guarded that inestimable jewel, and bewildered the adventurer with a

dark mist from the enchanted lake.

Thus life was worn away in the vain

search for an unearthly treasure, till at length the deluded one went

up the mountain, still sanguine as in youth, but returned no more. On

this theme methinks I could frame a tale with a deep moral.

The hearts of the palefaces would not thrill to these superstitions of

the red men, though we spoke of them in the centre of their haunted

region. The habits and sentiments of that departed people were too

distinct from those of their successors to find much real sympathy. It

has often been a matter of regret to me that I was shut out from the

most peculiar field of American fiction by an inability to see any

romance, or poetry, or grandeur, or beauty in the Indian character, at

least till such traits were pointed out by others. I do abhor an Indian

story. Yet no writer can be more secure of a permanent place in our

literature than the biographer of the Indian chiefs. His subject, as

referring to tribes which have mostly vanished from the earth, gives

him a right to be placed on a classic shelf, apart from the merits

which will sustain him there.

I made inquiries whether, in his researches about these parts, our

mineralogist had found the three “Silver Hills” which an Indian sachem

sold to an Englishman nearly two hundred years ago, and the treasure of

which the posterity of the purchaser have been looking for ever since.

But the man of science had ransacked every hill along the Saco, and

knew nothing of these prodigious piles of wealth. By this time, as

usual with men on the eve of great adventure, we had prolonged our

session deep into the night, considering how early we were to set out

on our six miles’ ride to the foot of Mount Washington. There was now a

general breaking up. I scrutinized the faces of the two bridegrooms,

and saw but little probability of their leaving the bosom of earthly

bliss, in the first week of the honeymoon and at the frosty hour of

three, to climb above the clouds; nor, when I felt how sharp the wind

was as it rushed through a broken pane and eddied between the gaps of

my unplastered chamber, did I anticipate much alacrity on my own part,

though we were to seek for the “Great Carbuncle.”

THE CANAL-BOAT.

I was inclined to be poetical about the Grand Canal. In my imagination

De Witt Clinton was an enchanter, who had waved his magic wand from the

Hudson to Lake Erie and united them by a watery highway, crowded with

the commerce of two worlds, till then inaccessible to each other.

This

simple and mighty conception had conferred inestimable value on spots

which Nature seemed to have thrown carelessly into the great body of

the earth, without foreseeing that they could ever attain importance. I

pictured the surprise of the sleepy Dutchmen when the new river first

glittered by their doors, bringing them hard cash or foreign

commodities in exchange for their hitherto unmarketable produce. Surely

the water of this canal must be the most fertilizing of all fluids; for

it causes towns, with their masses of brick and stone, their churches

and theatres, their business and hubbub, their luxury and refinement,

their gay dames and polished citizens, to spring up, till in time the

wondrous stream may flow between two continuous lines of buildings,

through one thronged street, from Buffalo to Albany. I embarked about

thirty miles below Utica, determining to voyage along the whole extent

of the canal at least twice in the course of the summer.

Behold us, then, fairly afloat, with three horses harnessed to our

vessel, like the steeds of Neptune to a huge scallop-shell in

mythological pictures. Bound to a distant port, we had neither chart

nor compass, nor cared about the wind, nor felt the heaving of a

billow, nor dreaded shipwreck, however fierce the tempest, in our

adventurous navigation of an interminable mudpuddle; for a mudpuddle it

seemed, and as dark and turbid as if every kennel in the land paid

contribution to it. With an imperceptible current, it holds its drowsy

way through all the dismal swamps and unimpressive scenery that could

be found between the great lakes and the sea-coast. Yet there is

variety enough, both on the surface of the canal and along its banks,

to amuse the traveller, if an overpowering tedium did not deaden his

perceptions.

Sometimes we met a black and rusty-looking vessel, laden with lumber,

salt from Syracuse, or Genesee flour, and shaped at both ends like a

square-toed boot, as if it had two sterns, and were fated always to

advance backward. On its deck would be a square hut, and a woman seen

through the window at her household work, with a little tribe of

children who perhaps had been born in this strange dwelling and knew no

other home. Thus, while the husband smoked his pipe at the helm and the

eldest son rode one of the horses, on went the family, travelling

hundreds of miles in their own house and carrying their fireside with

them.

The most frequent species of craft were the “line-boats,” which

had a cabin at each end, and a great bulk of barrels, bales, and boxes

in the midst, or light packets like our own decked all over with a row

of curtained windows from stem to stern, and a drowsy face at every

one. Once we encountered a boat of rude construction, painted all in

gloomy black, and manned by three Indians, who gazed at us in silence

and with a singular fixedness of eye. Perhaps these three alone, among

the ancient possessors of the land, had attempted to derive benefit

from the white mail’s mighty projects and float along the current of

his enterprise. Not long after, in the midst of a swamp and beneath a

clouded sky, we overtook a vessel that seemed full of mirth and

sunshine. It contained a little colony of Swiss on their way to

Michigan, clad in garments of strange fashion and gay colors, scarlet,

yellow, and bright blue, singing, laughing, and making merry in odd

tones and a babble of outlandish words. One pretty damsel, with a

beautiful pair of naked white arms, addressed a mirthful remark to me.

She spoke in her native tongue, and I retorted in good English, both of

us laughing heartily at each other’s unintelligible wit. I cannot

describe how pleasantly this incident affected me. These honest Swiss

were all itinerant community of jest and fun journeying through a

gloomy land and among a dull race of money-getting drudges, meeting

none to understand their mirth, and only one to sympathize with it, yet

still retaining the happy lightness of their own spirit.

Had I been on my feet at the time instead of sailing slowly along in a

dirty canal-boat, I should often have paused to contemplate the

diversified panorama along the banks of the canal. Sometimes the scene

was a forest, dark, dense, and impervious, breaking away occasionally

and receding from a lonely tract, covered with dismal black stumps,

where, on the verge of the canal, might be seen a log-cottage and a

sallow-faced woman at the window. Lean and aguish, she looked like

poverty personified, half clothed, half fed, and dwelling in a desert,

while a tide of wealth was sweeping by her door. Two or three miles

farther would bring us to a lock, where the slight impediment to

navigation had created a little mart of trade. Here would be found

commodities of all sorts, enumerated in yellow letters on the

window-shutters of a small grocery-store, the owner of which had set

his soul to the gathering of coppers and small change, buying and

selling through the week, and counting his gains on the blessed

Sabbath.

The next scene might be the dwelling-houses and stores of a

thriving village, built of wood or small gray stones, a church-spire

rising in the midst, and generally two taverns, bearing over their

piazzas the pompous titles of “hotel,” “exchange,” “tontine,” or

“coffee-house.” Passing on, we glide now into the unquiet heart of an

inland city,—of Utica, for instance,—and find ourselves amid piles of

brick, crowded docks and quays, rich warehouses, and a busy population.

We feel the eager and hurrying spirit of the place, like a stream and

eddy whirling us along with it. Through the thickest of the tumult goes

the canal, flowing between lofty rows of buildings and arched bridges

of hewn stone. Onward, also, go we, till the hum and bustle of

struggling enterprise die away behind us and we are threading an avenue

of the ancient woods again.

This sounds not amiss in description, but was so tiresome in reality

that we were driven to the most childish expedients for amusement. An

English traveller paraded the deck, with a rifle in his walking-stick,

and waged war on squirrels and woodpeckers, sometimes sending an

unsuccessful bullet among flocks of tame ducks and geese which abound

in the dirty water of the canal. I, also, pelted these foolish birds

with apples, and smiled at the ridiculous earnestness of their

scrambles for the prize while the apple bobbed about like a thing of

life. Several little accidents afforded us good-natured diversion. At

the moment of changing horses the tow-rope caught a Massachusetts

farmer by the leg and threw him down in a very indescribable posture,

leaving a purple mark around his sturdy limb. A new passenger fell flat

on his back in attempting to step on deck as the boat emerged from

under a bridge. Another, in his Sunday clothes, as good luck would have

it, being told to leap aboard from the bank, forthwith plunged up to

his third waistcoat-button in the canal, and was fished out in a very

pitiable plight, not at all amended by our three rounds of applause.

Anon a Virginia schoolmaster, too intent on a pocket Virgil to heed the

helmsman’s warning, “Bridge! bridge!” was saluted by the said bridge on

his knowledge-box. I had prostrated myself like a pagan before his

idol, but heard the dull, leaden sound of the contact, and fully

expected to see the treasures of the poor man’s cranium scattered about

the deck. However, as there was no harm done, except a large bump on

the head, and probably a corresponding dent in the bridge, the rest of

us exchanged glances and laughed quietly.

O, bow pitiless are idle

people!

The table being now lengthened through the cabin and spread for supper,

the next twenty minutes were the pleasantest I had spent on the canal,

the same space at dinner excepted. At the close of the meal it had

become dusky enough for lamplight. The rain pattered unceasingly on the

deck, and sometimes came with a sullen rush against the windows, driven

by the wind as it stirred through an opening of the forest. The

intolerable dulness of the scene engendered an evil spirit in me.

Perceiving that the Englishman was taking notes in a memorandum-book,

with occasional glances round the cabin, I presumed that we were all to

figure in a future volume of travels, and amused my ill-humor by

falling into the probable vein of his remarks. He would hold up an

imaginary mirror, wherein our reflected faces would appear ugly and

ridiculous, yet still retain all undeniable likeness to the originals.

Then, with more sweeping malice, he would make these caricatures the

representatives of great classes of my countrymen.

He glanced at the Virginia schoolmaster, a Yankee by birth, who, to

recreate himself, was examining a freshman from Schenectady College in

the conjugation of a Greek verb. Him the Englishman would portray as

the scholar of America, and compare his erudition to a school-boy’s

Latin theme made up of scraps ill-selected and worse put together. Next

the tourist looked at the Massachusetts farmer, who was delivering a

dogmatic harangue on the iniquity of Sunday mails. Here was the

far-famed yeoman of New England; his religion, writes the Englishman,

is gloom on the Sabbath, long prayers every morning and eventide, and

illiberality at all times; his boasted information is merely an

abstract and compound of newspaper paragraphs, Congress debates, caucus

harangues, and the argument and judge’s charge in his own lawsuits. The

book-monger cast his eye at a Detroit merchant, and began scribbling

faster than ever. In this sharp-eyed man, this lean man, of wrinkled

brow, we see daring enterprise and close-fisted avarice combined. Here

is the worshipper of Mammon at noonday; here is the three times

bankrupt, richer after every ruin; here, in one word, (O wicked

Englishman to say it!) here is the American. He lifted his eyeglass to

inspect a Western lady, who at once became aware of the glance,

reddened, and retired deeper into the female part of the cabin.

Here

was the pure, modest, sensitive, and shrinking woman of

America,—shrinking when no evil is intended, and sensitive like

diseased flesh, that thrills if you but point at it; and strangely

modest, without confidence in the modesty of other people; and

admirably pure, with such a quick apprehension of all impurity.

In this manner I went all through the cabin, hitting everybody as hard

a lash as I could, and laying the whole blame on the infernal

Englishman. At length I caught the eyes of my own image in the

looking-glass, where a number of the party were likewise reflected, and

among them the Englishman, who at that moment was intently observing

myself.

The crimson curtain being let down between the ladies and gentlemen,

the cabin became a bedchamber for twenty persons, who were laid on

shelves one above another. For a long time our various incommodities

kept us all awake except five or six, who were accustomed to sleep

nightly amid the uproar of their own snoring, and had little to dread

from any other species of disturbance. It is a curious fact that these

snorers had been the most quiet people in the boat while awake, and

became peace-breakers only when others cease to be so, breathing tumult

out of their repose. Would it were possible to affix a wind-instrument

to the nose, and thus make melody of a snore, so that a sleeping lover

might serenade his mistress or a congregation snore a psalm-tune!

Other, though fainter, sounds than these contributed to my

restlessness. My head was close to the crimson curtain,—the sexual

division of the boat,—behind which I continually heard whispers and

stealthy footsteps; the noise of a comb laid on the table or a slipper

dropped on the floor; the twang, like a broken harp-string, caused by

loosening a tight belt; the rustling of a gown in its descent; and the

unlacing of a pair of stays. My ear seemed to have the properties of an

eye; a visible image pestered my fancy in the darkness; the curtain was

withdrawn between me and the Western lady, who yet disrobed herself

without a blush.

Finally all was hushed in that quarter. Still I was more broad awake

than through the whole preceding day, and felt a feverish impulse to

toss my limbs miles apart and appease the unquietness of mind by that

of matter. Forgetting that my berth was hardly so wide as a coffin, I

turned suddenly over and fell like an avalanche on the floor, to the

disturbance of the whole community of sleepers. As there were no bones

broken, I blessed the accident and went on deck.

A lantern was burning

at each end of the boat, and one of the crew was stationed at the bows,

keeping watch, as mariners do on the ocean. Though the rain had ceased,

the sky was all one cloud, and the darkness so intense that there

seemed to be no world except the little space on which our lanterns

glimmered. Yet it was an impressive scene.

We were traversing the “long level,” a dead flat between Utica and

Syracuse, where the canal has not rise or fall enough to require a lock

for nearly seventy miles. There can hardly be a more dismal tract of

country. The forest which covers it, consisting chiefly of white-cedar,

black-ash, and other trees that live in excessive moisture, is now

decayed and death-struck by the partial draining of the swamp into the

great ditch of the canal. Sometimes, indeed, our lights were reflected

from pools of stagnant water which stretched far in among the trunks of

the trees, beneath dense masses of dark foliage. But generally the tall

stems and intermingled branches were naked, and brought into strong

relief amid the surrounding gloom by the whiteness of their decay.

Often we beheld the prostrate form of some old sylvan giant which had

fallen and crushed down smaller trees under its immense ruin. In spots

where destruction had been riotous, the lanterns showed perhaps a

hundred trunks, erect, half overthrown, extended along the ground,

resting on their shattered limbs or tossing them desperately into the

darkness, but all of one ashy white, all naked together, in desolate

confusion. Thus growing out of the night as we drew nigh, and vanishing

as we glided on, based on obscurity, and overhung and bounded by it,

the scene was ghostlike,—the very land of unsubstantial things, whither

dreams might betake themselves when they quit the slumberer’s brain.

My fancy found another emblem. The wild nature of America had been

driven to this desert-place by the encroachments of civilized man. And

even here, where the savage queen was throned on the ruins of her

empire, did we penetrate, a vulgar and worldly throng, intruding on her

latest solitude. In other lands decay sits among fallen palaces; but

here her home is in the forests.

Looking ahead, I discerned a distant light, announcing the approach of

another boat, which soon passed us, and proved to be a rusty old

scow,—just such a craft as the “Flying Dutchman” would navigate on the

canal.

Perhaps it was that celebrated personage himself whom I

imperfectly distinguished at the helm in a glazed cap and rough

great-coat, with a pipe in his mouth, leaving the fumes of tobacco a

hundred yards behind. Shortly after our boatman blew a horn, sending a

long and melancholy note through the forest avenue, as a signal for

some watcher in the wilderness to be ready with a change of horses. We

had proceeded a mile or two with our fresh team when the tow-rope got

entangled in a fallen branch on the edge of the canal, and caused a

momentary delay, during which I went to examine the phosphoric light of

an old tree a little within the forest. It was not the first delusive

radiance that I had followed.

The tree lay along the ground, and was wholly converted into a mass of

diseased splendor, which threw a ghastliness around. Being full of

conceits that night, I called it a frigid fire, a funeral light,

illumining decay and death, an emblem of fame that gleams around the

dead man without warming him, or of genius when it owes its brilliancy

to moral rottenness, and was thinking that such ghostlike torches were

just fit to light up this dead forest or to blaze coldly in tombs,

when, starting from my abstraction, I looked up the canal. I

recollected myself, and discovered the lanterns glimmering far away.

“Boat ahoy!” shouted I, making a trumpet of my closed fists.

Though the cry must have rung for miles along that hollow passage of

the woods, it produced no effect. These packet-boats make up for their

snail-like pace by never loitering day nor night, especially for those

who have paid their fare. Indeed, the captain had an interest in

getting rid of me; for I was his creditor for a breakfast.

“They are gone, Heaven be praised!” ejaculated I; “for I cannot

possibly overtake them. Here am I, on the ‘long level,’ at midnight,

with the comfortable prospect of a walk to Syracuse, where my baggage

will be left. And now to find a house or shed wherein to pass the

night.” So thinking aloud, I took a flambeau from the old tree,

burning, but consuming not, to light my steps withal, and, like a

jack-o’-the-lantern, set out on my midnight tour.

Chapter 24.

THE OLD APPLE DEALER.

The lover of the moral picturesque may sometimes find what he, seeks in

a character which is nevertheless of too negative a description to be

seized upon and represented to the imaginative vision by word-painting.

As an instance, I remember an old man who carries on a little trade of

gingerbread and apples at the depot of one of our railroads.

While

awaiting the departure of the cars, my observation, flitting to and fro

among the livelier characteristics of the scene, has often settled

insensibly upon this almost hueless object. Thus, unconsciously to

myself and unsuspected by him, I have studied the old apple-dealer

until he has become a naturalized citizen of my inner world. How little

would he imagine—poor, neglected, friendless, unappreciated, and with

little that demands appreciation—that the mental eye of an utter

stranger has so often reverted to his figure! Many a noble form, many a

beautiful face, has flitted before me and vanished like a shadow. It is

a strange witchcraft whereby this faded and featureless old

apple-dealer has gained a settlement in my memory.

He is a small man, with gray hair and gray stubble beard, and is

invariably clad in a shabby surtout of snuff-color, closely buttoned,

and half concealing a pair of gray pantaloons; the whole dress, though

clean and entire, being evidently flimsy with much wear. His face,

thin, withered, furrowed, and with features which even age has failed

to render impressive, has a frost-bitten aspect. It is a moral frost

which no physical warmth or comfortableness could counteract. The

summer sunshine may fling its white heat upon him or the good fire of

the depot room may slake him the focus of its blaze on a winter’s day;

but all in vain; for still the old roan looks as if he were in a frosty

atmosphere, with scarcely warmth enough to keep life in the region

about his heart. It is a patient, long-suffering, quiet, hopeless,

shivering aspect. He is not desperate,—that, though its etymology

implies no more, would be too positive an expression,—but merely devoid

of hope. As all his past life, probably, offers no spots of brightness

to his memory, so he takes his present poverty and discomfort as

entirely a matter of course! he thinks it the definition of existence,

so far as himself is concerned, to be poor, cold, and uncomfortable. It

may be added, that time has not thrown dignity as a mantle over the old

man’s figure: there is nothing venerable about him: you pity him

without a scruple.

He sits on a bench in the depot room; and before him, on the floor, are

deposited two baskets of a capacity to contain his whole stock in

trade. Across from one basket to the other extends a board, on which is

displayed a plate of cakes and gingerbread, some russet and red-cheeked

apples, and a box containing variegated sticks of candy, together with

that delectable condiment known by children as Gibraltar rock, neatly

done up in white paper.

There is likewise a half-peck measure of

cracked walnuts and two or three tin half-pints or gills filled with

the nut-kernels, ready for purchasers.

Such are the small commodities with which our old friend comes daily

before the world, ministering to its petty needs and little freaks of

appetite, and seeking thence the solid subsistence—so far as he may

subsist of his life.

A slight observer would speak of the old man’s quietude; but, on closer

scrutiny, you discover that there is a continual unrest within him,

which somewhat resembles the fluttering action of the nerves in a

corpse from which life has recently departed. Though he never exhibits

any violent action, and, indeed, might appear to be sitting quite

still, yet you perceive, when his minuter peculiarities begin to be

detected, that he is always making some little movement or other. He

looks anxiously at his plate of cakes or pyramid of apples and slightly

alters their arrangement, with an evident idea that a great deal

depends on their being disposed exactly thus and so. Then for a moment

he gazes out of the window; then he shivers quietly and folds his arms

across his breast, as if to draw himself closer within himself, and

thus keep a flicker of warmth in his lonesome heart. Now he turns again

to his merchandise of cakes, apples, and candy, and discovers that this

cake or that apple, or yonder stick of red and white candy, has somehow

got out of its proper position. And is there not a walnut-kernel too

many or too few in one of those small tin measures? Again the whole

arrangement appears to be settled to his mind; but, in the course of a

minute or two, there will assuredly be something to set right. At

times, by an indescribable shadow upon his features, too quiet,

however, to be noticed until you are familiar with his ordinary aspect,

the expression of frostbitten, patient despondency becomes very

touching. It seems as if just at that instant the suspicion occurred to

him that, in his chill decline of life, earning scanty bread by selling

cakes, apples, and candy, he is a very miserable old fellow.

But, if he thinks so, it is a mistake. He can never suffer the extreme

of misery, because the tone of his whole being is too much subdued for

him to feel anything acutely.

Occasionally one of the passengers, to while away a tedious interval,

approaches the old man, inspects the articles upon his board, and even

peeps curiously into the two baskets. Another, striding to and fro

along the room, throws a look at the apples and gingerbread at every

turn.

A third, it may be of a more sensitive and delicate texture of

being, glances shyly thitherward, cautious not to excite expectations

of a purchaser while yet undetermined whether to buy. But there appears

to be no need of such a scrupulous regard to our old friend’s feelings.

True, he is conscious of the remote possibility to sell a cake or an

apple; but innumerable disappointments have rendered him so far a

philosopher, that, even if the purchased article should be returned, he

will consider it altogether in the ordinary train of events. He speaks

to none, and makes no sign of offering his wares to the public: not

that he is deterred by pride, but by the certain conviction that such

demonstrations would not increase his custom. Besides, this activity in

business would require an energy that never could have been a

characteristic of his almost passive disposition even in youth.

Whenever an actual customer customer appears the old man looks up with

a patient eye: if the price and the article are approved, he is ready

to make change; otherwise his eyelids droop again sadly enough, but

with no heavier despondency than before. He shivers, perhaps folds his

lean arms around his lean body, and resumes the life-long, frozen

patience in which consists his strength.

Once in a while a school-boy comes hastily up, places cent or two upon

the board, and takes up a cake, or stick of candy, or a measure of

walnuts, or an apple as red-checked as himself. There are no words as

to price, that being as well known to the buyer as to the seller. The

old apple-dealer never speaks an unnecessary word not that he is sullen

and morose; but there is none of the cheeriness and briskness in him

that stirs up people to talk.

Not seldom he is greeted by some old neighbor, a man well to do in the

world, who makes a civil, patronizing observation about the weather;

and then, by way of performing a charitable deed, begins to chaffer for

an apple. Our friend presumes not on any past acquaintance; he makes

the briefest possible response to all general remarks, and shrinks

quietly into himself again. After every diminution of his stock he

takes care to produce from the basket another cake, another stick of

candy, another apple, or another measure of walnuts, to supply the

place of the article sold. Two or three attempts—or, perchance, half a

dozen—are requisite before the board can be rearranged to his

satisfaction.

If he have received a silver coin, he waits till the

purchaser is out of sight, then examines it closely, and tries to bend

it with his finger and thumb: finally he puts it into his

waistcoat-pocket with seemingly a gentle sigh. This sigh, so faint as

to be hardly perceptible, and not expressive of any definite emotion,

is the accompaniment and conclusion of all his actions. It is the

symbol of the chillness and torpid melancholy of his old age, which

only make themselves felt sensibly when his repose is slightly

disturbed.

Our man of gingerbread and apples is not a specimen of the “needy man

who has seen better days.” Doubtless there have been better and

brighter days in the far-off time of his youth; but none with so much

sunshine of prosperity in them that the chill, the depression, the

narrowness of means, in his declining years, can have come upon him by

surprise. His life has all been of a piece. His subdued and nerveless

boyhood prefigured his abortive prime, which likewise contained within

itself the prophecy and image of his lean and torpid age. He was

perhaps a mechanic, who never came to be a master in his craft, or a

petty tradesman, rubbing onward between passably to do and poverty.

Possibly he may look back to some brilliant epoch of his career when

there were a hundred or two of dollars to his credit in the Savings

Bank. Such must have been the extent of his better fortune,—his little

measure of this world’s triumphs,—all that he has known of success. A

meek, downcast, humble, uncomplaining creature, he probably has never

felt himself entitled to more than so much of the gifts of Providence.

Is it not still something that he has never held out his hand for

charity, nor has yet been driven to that sad home and household of

Earth’s forlorn and broken-spirited children, the almshouse? He

cherishes no quarrel, therefore, with his destiny, nor with the Author

of it. All is as it should be.

If, indeed, he have been bereaved of a son, a bold, energetic, vigorous

young man, on whom the father’s feeble nature leaned as on a staff of

strength, in that case he may have felt a bitterness that could not

otherwise have been generated in his heart. But methinks the joy of

possessing such a son and the agony of losing him would have developed

the old man’s moral and intellectual nature to a much greater degree

than we now find it. Intense grief appears to be as much out of keeping

with his life as fervid happiness.

To confess the truth, it is not the easiest matter in the world to

define and individualize a character like this which we are now

handling. The portrait must be so generally negative that the most

delicate pencil is likely to spoil it by introducing some too positive

tint. Every touch must be kept down, or else you destroy the subdued

tone which is absolutely essential to the whole effect. Perhaps more

may be done by contrast than by direct description. For this purpose I

make use of another cake and candy merchant, who, likewise infests the

railroad depot. This latter worthy is a very smart and well-dressed boy

of ten years old or thereabouts, who skips briskly hither and thither,

addressing the passengers in a pert voice, yet with somewhat of good

breeding in his tone and pronunciation. Now he has caught my eye, and

skips across the room with a pretty pertness, which I should like to

correct with a box on the ear. “Any cake, sir? any candy?”

No, none for me, my lad. I did but glance at your brisk figure in order

to catch a reflected light and throw it upon your old rival yonder.

Again, in order to invest my conception of the old man with a more

decided sense of reality, I look at him in the very moment of intensest

bustle, on the arrival of the cars. The shriek of the engine as it

rushes into the car-house is the utterance of the steam fiend, whom man

has subdued by magic spells and compels to serve as a beast of burden.

He has skimmed rivers in his headlong rush, dashed through forests,

plunged into the hearts of mountains, and glanced from the city to the

desert-place, and again to a far-off city, with a meteoric progress,

seen and out of sight, while his reverberating roar still fills the

ear. The travellers swarm forth from the cars. All are full of the

momentum which they have caught from their mode of conveyance. It seems

as if the whole world, both morally and physically, were detached from

its old standfasts and set in rapid motion. And, in the midst of this

terrible activity, there sits the old man of gingerbread, so subdued,

so hopeless, so without a stake in life, and yet not positively

miserable,—there he sits, the forlorn old creature, one chill and

sombre day after another, gathering scanty coppers for his cakes,

apples, and candy,—there sits the old apple-dealer, in his threadbare

suit of snuff-color and gray and his grizzly stubble heard. See! he

folds his lean arms around his lean figure with that quiet sigh and

that scarcely perceptible shiver which are the tokens of his inward

state. I have him now.

He and the steam fiend are each other’s

antipodes; the latter is the type of all that go ahead, and the old man

the representative of that melancholy class who by some sad witchcraft

are doomed never to share in the world’s exulting progress. Thus the

contrast between mankind and this desolate brother becomes picturesque,

and even sublime.

And now farewell, old friend! Little do you suspect that a student of

human life has made your character the theme of more than one solitary

and thoughtful hour. Many would say that you have hardly individuality

enough to be the object of your own self-love. How, then, can a

stranger’s eye detect anything in your mind and heart to study and to

wonder at? Yet, could I read but a tithe of what is written there, it

would be a volume of deeper and more comprehensive import than all that

the wisest mortals have given to the world; for the soundless depths of

the human soul and of eternity have an opening through your breast. God

be praised, were it only for your sake, that the present shapes of

human existence are not cast in iron nor hewn in everlasting adamant,

but moulded of the vapors that vanish away while the essence flits

upward to the infinite. There is a spiritual essence in this gray and

lean old shape that shall flit upward too. Yes; doubtless there is a

region where the life-long shiver will pass away from his being, and

that quiet sigh, which it has taken him so many years to breathe, will

be brought to a close for good and all.

Chapter 25.

THE ARTIST OF THE BEAUTIFUL.

An elderly man, with his pretty daughter on his arm, was passing along

the street, and emerged from the gloom of the cloudy evening into the

light that fell across the pavement from the window of a small shop. It

was a projecting window; and on the inside were suspended a variety of

watches, pinchbeck, silver, and one or two of gold, all with their

faces turned from the streets, as if churlishly disinclined to inform

the wayfarers what o’clock it was. Seated within the shop, sidelong to

the window with his pale face bent earnestly over some delicate piece

of mechanism on which was thrown the concentrated lustre of a shade

lamp, appeared a young man.

“What can Owen Warland be about?” muttered old Peter Hovenden, himself

a retired watchmaker, and the former master of this same young man

whose occupation he was now wondering at. “What can the fellow be

about? These six months past I have never come by his shop without

seeing him just as steadily at work as now.

It would be a flight beyond

his usual foolery to seek for the perpetual motion; and yet I know

enough of my old business to be certain that what he is now so busy

with is no part of the machinery of a watch.”

“Perhaps, father,” said Annie, without showing much interest in the

question, “Owen is inventing a new kind of timekeeper. I am sure he has

ingenuity enough.”

“Poh, child! He has not the sort of ingenuity to invent anything better

than a Dutch toy,” answered her father, who had formerly been put to

much vexation by Owen Warland’s irregular genius. “A plague on such

ingenuity! All the effect that ever I knew of it was to spoil the

accuracy of some of the best watches in my shop. He would turn the sun

out of its orbit and derange the whole course of time, if, as I said

before, his ingenuity could grasp anything bigger than a child’s toy!”

“Hush, father! He hears you!” whispered Annie, pressing the old man’s

arm. “His ears are as delicate as his feelings; and you know how easily

disturbed they are. Do let us move on.”

So Peter Hovenden and his daughter Annie plodded on without further

conversation, until in a by-street of the town they found themselves

passing the open door of a blacksmith’s shop. Within was seen the

forge, now blazing up and illuminating the high and dusky roof, and now

confining its lustre to a narrow precinct of the coal-strewn floor,

according as the breath of the bellows was puffed forth or again

inhaled into its vast leathern lungs. In the intervals of brightness it

was easy to distinguish objects in remote corners of the shop and the

horseshoes that hung upon the wall; in the momentary gloom the fire

seemed to be glimmering amidst the vagueness of unenclosed space.

Moving about in this red glare and alternate dusk was the figure of the

blacksmith, well worthy to be viewed in so picturesque an aspect of

light and shade, where the bright blaze struggled with the black night,

as if each would have snatched his comely strength from the other. Anon

he drew a white-hot bar of iron from the coals, laid it on the anvil,

uplifted his arm of might, and was soon enveloped in the myriads of

sparks which the strokes of his hammer scattered into the surrounding

gloom.

“Now, that is a pleasant sight,” said the old watchmaker. “I know what

it is to work in gold; but give me the worker in iron after all is said

and done. He spends his labor upon a reality. What say you, daughter

Annie?”

“Pray don’t speak so loud, father,” whispered Annie, “Robert Danforth

will hear you.”

“And what if he should hear me?” said Peter Hovenden.

“I say again, it

is a good and a wholesome thing to depend upon main strength and

reality, and to earn one’s bread with the bare and brawny arm of a

blacksmith. A watchmaker gets his brain puzzled by his wheels within a

wheel, or loses his health or the nicety of his eyesight, as was my

case, and finds himself at middle age, or a little after, past labor at

his own trade and fit for nothing else, yet too poor to live at his

ease. So I say once again, give me main strength for my money. And

then, how it takes the nonsense out of a man! Did you ever hear of a

blacksmith being such a fool as Owen Warland yonder?”

“Well said, uncle Hovenden!” shouted Robert Danforth from the forge, in

a full, deep, merry voice, that made the roof re-echo. “And what says

Miss Annie to that doctrine? She, I suppose, will think it a genteeler

business to tinker up a lady’s watch than to forge a horseshoe or make

a gridiron.”

Annie drew her father onward without giving him time for reply.

But we must return to Owen Warland’s shop, and spend more meditation

upon his history and character than either Peter Hovenden, or probably

his daughter Annie, or Owen’s old school-fellow, Robert Danforth, would

have thought due to so slight a subject. From the time that his little

fingers could grasp a penknife, Owen had been remarkable for a delicate

ingenuity, which sometimes produced pretty shapes in wood, principally

figures of flowers and birds, and sometimes seemed to aim at the hidden

mysteries of mechanism. But it was always for purposes of grace, and

never with any mockery of the useful. He did not, like the crowd of

school-boy artisans, construct little windmills on the angle of a barn

or watermills across the neighboring brook. Those who discovered such

peculiarity in the boy as to think it worth their while to observe him

closely, sometimes saw reason to suppose that he was attempting to

imitate the beautiful movements of Nature as exemplified in the flight

of birds or the activity of little animals. It seemed, in fact, a new

development of the love of the beautiful, such as might have made him a

poet, a painter, or a sculptor, and which was as completely refined

from all utilitarian coarseness as it could have been in either of the

fine arts. He looked with singular distaste at the stiff and regular

processes of ordinary machinery. Being once carried to see a

steam-engine, in the expectation that his intuitive comprehension of

mechanical principles would be gratified, he turned pale and grew sick,

as if something monstrous and unnatural had been presented to him.

This

horror was partly owing to the size and terrible energy of the iron

laborer; for the character of Owen’s mind was microscopic, and tended

naturally to the minute, in accordance with his diminutive frame and

the marvellous smallness and delicate power of his fingers. Not that

his sense of beauty was thereby diminished into a sense of prettiness.

The beautiful idea has no relation to size, and may be as perfectly

developed in a space too minute for any but microscopic investigation

as within the ample verge that is measured by the arc of the rainbow.

But, at all events, this characteristic minuteness in his objects and

accomplishments made the world even more incapable than it might

otherwise have been of appreciating Owen Warland’s genius. The boy’s

relatives saw nothing better to be done—as perhaps there was not—than

to bind him apprentice to a watchmaker, hoping that his strange

ingenuity might thus be regulated and put to utilitarian purposes.

Peter Hovenden’s opinion of his apprentice has already been expressed.

He could make nothing of the lad. Owen’s apprehension of the

professional mysteries, it is true, was inconceivably quick; but he

altogether forgot or despised the grand object of a watchmaker’s

business, and cared no more for the measurement of time than if it had

been merged into eternity. So long, however, as he remained under his

old master’s care, Owen’s lack of sturdiness made it possible, by

strict injunctions and sharp oversight, to restrain his creative

eccentricity within bounds; but when his apprenticeship was served out,

and he had taken the little shop which Peter Hovenden’s failing

eyesight compelled him to relinquish, then did people recognize how

unfit a person was Owen Warland to lead old blind Father Time along his

daily course. One of his most rational projects was to connect a

musical operation with the machinery of his watches, so that all the

harsh dissonances of life might be rendered tuneful, and each flitting

moment fall into the abyss of the past in golden drops of harmony. If a

family clock was intrusted to him for repair,—one of those tall,

ancient clocks that have grown nearly allied to human nature by

measuring out the lifetime of many generations,—he would take upon

himself to arrange a dance or funeral procession of figures across its

venerable face, representing twelve mirthful or melancholy hours.

Several freaks of this kind quite destroyed the young watchmaker’s

credit with that steady and matter-of-fact class of people who hold the

opinion that time is not to be trifled with, whether considered as the

medium of advancement and prosperity in this world or preparation for

the next. His custom rapidly diminished—a misfortune, however, that was

probably reckoned among his better accidents by Owen Warland, who was

becoming more and more absorbed in a secret occupation which drew all

his science and manual dexterity into itself, and likewise gave full

employment to the characteristic tendencies of his genius. This pursuit

had already consumed many months.

After the old watchmaker and his pretty daughter had gazed at him out

of the obscurity of the street, Owen Warland was seized with a

fluttering of the nerves, which made his hand tremble too violently to

proceed with such delicate labor as he was now engaged upon.

“It was Annie herself!” murmured he. “I should have known it, by this

throbbing of my heart, before I heard her father’s voice. Ah, how it

throbs! I shall scarcely be able to work again on this exquisite

mechanism to-night. Annie! dearest Annie! thou shouldst give firmness

to my heart and hand, and not shake them thus; for if I strive to put

the very spirit of beauty into form and give it motion, it is for thy

sake alone. O throbbing heart, be quiet! If my labor be thus thwarted,

there will come vague and unsatisfied dreams which will leave me

spiritless to-morrow.”

As he was endeavoring to settle himself again to his task, the shop

door opened and gave admittance to no other than the stalwart figure

which Peter Hovenden had paused to admire, as seen amid the light and

shadow of the blacksmith’s shop. Robert Danforth had brought a little

anvil of his own manufacture, and peculiarly constructed, which the

young artist had recently bespoken. Owen examined the article and

pronounced it fashioned according to his wish.

“Why, yes,” said Robert Danforth, his strong voice filling the shop as

with the sound of a bass viol, “I consider myself equal to anything in

the way of my own trade; though I should have made but a poor figure at

yours with such a fist as this,” added he, laughing, as he laid his

vast hand beside the delicate one of Owen. “But what then? I put more

main strength into one blow of my sledge hammer than all that you have

expended since you were a ’prentice. Is not that the truth?”

“Very probably,” answered the low and slender voice of Owen. “Strength

is an earthly monster. I make no pretensions to it.

My force, whatever

there may be of it, is altogether spiritual.”

“Well, but, Owen, what are you about?” asked his old school-fellow,

still in such a hearty volume of tone that it made the artist shrink,

especially as the question related to a subject so sacred as the

absorbing dream of his imagination. “Folks do say that you are trying

to discover the perpetual motion.”

“The perpetual motion? Nonsense!” replied Owen Warland, with a movement

of disgust; for he was full of little petulances. “It can never be

discovered. It is a dream that may delude men whose brains are

mystified with matter, but not me. Besides, if such a discovery were

possible, it would not be worth my while to make it only to have the

secret turned to such purposes as are now effected by steam and water

power. I am not ambitious to be honored with the paternity of a new

kind of cotton machine.”

“That would be droll enough!” cried the blacksmith, breaking out into

such an uproar of laughter that Owen himself and the bell glasses on

his work-board quivered in unison. “No, no, Owen! No child of yours

will have iron joints and sinews. Well, I won’t hinder you any more.

Good night, Owen, and success, and if you need any assistance, so far

as a downright blow of hammer upon anvil will answer the purpose, I’m

your man.”

And with another laugh the man of main strength left the shop.

“How strange it is,” whispered Owen Warland to himself, leaning his

head upon his hand, “that all my musings, my purposes, my passion for

the beautiful, my consciousness of power to create it,—a finer, more

ethereal power, of which this earthly giant can have no

conception,—all, all, look so vain and idle whenever my path is crossed

by Robert Danforth! He would drive me mad were I to meet him often. His

hard, brute force darkens and confuses the spiritual element within me;

but I, too, will be strong in my own way. I will not yield to him.”

He took from beneath a glass a piece of minute machinery, which he set

in the condensed light of his lamp, and, looking intently at it through

a magnifying glass, proceeded to operate with a delicate instrument of

steel. In an instant, however, he fell back in his chair and clasped

his hands, with a look of horror on his face that made its small

features as impressive as those of a giant would have been.

“Heaven! What have I done?” exclaimed he. “The vapor, the influence of

that brute force,—it has bewildered me and obscured my perception. I

have made the very stroke—the fatal stroke—that I have dreaded from the

first.

It is all over—the toil of months, the object of my life. I am

ruined!”

And there he sat, in strange despair, until his lamp flickered in the

socket and left the Artist of the Beautiful in darkness.

Thus it is that ideas, which grow up within the imagination and appear

so lovely to it and of a value beyond whatever men call valuable, are

exposed to be shattered and annihilated by contact with the practical.

It is requisite for the ideal artist to possess a force of character

that seems hardly compatible with its delicacy; he must keep his faith

in himself while the incredulous world assails him with its utter

disbelief; he must stand up against mankind and be his own sole

disciple, both as respects his genius and the objects to which it is

directed.

For a time Owen Warland succumbed to this severe but inevitable test.

He spent a few sluggish weeks with his head so continually resting in

his hands that the towns-people had scarcely an opportunity to see his

countenance. When at last it was again uplifted to the light of day, a

cold, dull, nameless change was perceptible upon it. In the opinion of

Peter Hovenden, however, and that order of sagacious understandings who

think that life should be regulated, like clockwork, with leaden

weights, the alteration was entirely for the better. Owen now, indeed,

applied himself to business with dogged industry. It was marvellous to

witness the obtuse gravity with which he would inspect the wheels of a

great old silver watch thereby delighting the owner, in whose fob it

had been worn till he deemed it a portion of his own life, and was

accordingly jealous of its treatment. In consequence of the good report

thus acquired, Owen Warland was invited by the proper authorities to

regulate the clock in the church steeple. He succeeded so admirably in

this matter of public interest that the merchants gruffly acknowledged

his merits on ’Change; the nurse whispered his praises as she gave the

potion in the sick-chamber; the lover blessed him at the hour of

appointed interview; and the town in general thanked Owen for the

punctuality of dinner time. In a word, the heavy weight upon his

spirits kept everything in order, not merely within his own system, but

wheresoever the iron accents of the church clock were audible. It was a

circumstance, though minute, yet characteristic of his present state,

that, when employed to engrave names or initials on silver spoons, he

now wrote the requisite letters in the plainest possible style,

omitting a variety of fanciful flourishes that had heretofore

distinguished his work in this kind.

One day, during the era of this happy transformation, old Peter

Hovenden came to visit his former apprentice.

“Well, Owen,” said he, “I am glad to hear such good accounts of you

from all quarters, and especially from the town clock yonder, which

speaks in your commendation every hour of the twenty-four. Only get rid

altogether of your nonsensical trash about the beautiful, which I nor

nobody else, nor yourself to boot, could ever understand,—only free

yourself of that, and your success in life is as sure as daylight. Why,

if you go on in this way, I should even venture to let you doctor this

precious old watch of mine; though, except my daughter Annie, I have

nothing else so valuable in the world.”

“I should hardly dare touch it, sir,” replied Owen, in a depressed

tone; for he was weighed down by his old master’s presence.

“In time,” said the latter,—“In time, you will be capable of it.”

The old watchmaker, with the freedom naturally consequent on his former

authority, went on inspecting the work which Owen had in hand at the

moment, together with other matters that were in progress. The artist,

meanwhile, could scarcely lift his head. There was nothing so antipodal

to his nature as this man’s cold, unimaginative sagacity, by contact

with which everything was converted into a dream except the densest

matter of the physical world. Owen groaned in spirit and prayed

fervently to be delivered from him.

“But what is this?” cried Peter Hovenden abruptly, taking up a dusty

bell glass, beneath which appeared a mechanical something, as delicate

and minute as the system of a butterfly’s anatomy. “What have we here?

Owen! Owen! there is witchcraft in these little chains, and wheels, and

paddles. See! with one pinch of my finger and thumb I am going to

deliver you from all future peril.”

“For Heaven’s sake,” screamed Owen Warland, springing up with wonderful

energy, “as you would not drive me mad, do not touch it! The slightest

pressure of your finger would ruin me forever.”

“Aha, young man! And is it so?” said the old watchmaker, looking at him

with just enough penetration to torture Owen’s soul with the bitterness

of worldly criticism. “Well, take your own course; but I warn you again

that in this small piece of mechanism lives your evil spirit. Shall I

exorcise him?”

“You are my evil spirit,” answered Owen, much excited,—“you and the

hard, coarse world! The leaden thoughts and the despondency that you

fling upon me are my clogs, else I should long ago have achieved the

task that I was created for.

Peter Hovenden shook his head, with the mixture of contempt and

indignation which mankind, of whom he was partly a representative, deem

themselves entitled to feel towards all simpletons who seek other

prizes than the dusty one along the highway. He then took his leave,

with an uplifted finger and a sneer upon his face that haunted the

artist’s dreams for many a night afterwards. At the time of his old

master’s visit, Owen was probably on the point of taking up the

relinquished task; but, by this sinister event, he was thrown back into

the state whence he had been slowly emerging.

But the innate tendency of his soul had only been accumulating fresh

vigor during its apparent sluggishness. As the summer advanced he

almost totally relinquished his business, and permitted Father Time, so

far as the old gentleman was represented by the clocks and watches

under his control, to stray at random through human life, making

infinite confusion among the train of bewildered hours. He wasted the

sunshine, as people said, in wandering through the woods and fields and

along the banks of streams. There, like a child, he found amusement in

chasing butterflies or watching the motions of water insects. There was

something truly mysterious in the intentness with which he contemplated

these living playthings as they sported on the breeze or examined the

structure of an imperial insect whom he had imprisoned. The chase of

butterflies was an apt emblem of the ideal pursuit in which he had

spent so many golden hours; but would the beautiful idea ever be

yielded to his hand like the butterfly that symbolized it? Sweet,

doubtless, were these days, and congenial to the artist’s soul. They

were full of bright conceptions, which gleamed through his intellectual

world as the butterflies gleamed through the outward atmosphere, and

were real to him, for the instant, without the toil, and perplexity,

and many disappointments of attempting to make them visible to the

sensual eye. Alas that the artist, whether in poetry, or whatever other

material, may not content himself with the inward enjoyment of the

beautiful, but must chase the flitting mystery beyond the verge of his

ethereal domain, and crush its frail being in seizing it with a

material grasp. Owen Warland felt the impulse to give external reality

to his ideas as irresistibly as any of the poets or painters who have

arrayed the world in a dimmer and fainter beauty, imperfectly copied

from the richness of their visions.

The night was now his time for the slow progress of re-creating the one

idea to which all his intellectual activity referred itself. Always at

the approach of dusk he stole into the town, locked himself within his

shop, and wrought with patient delicacy of touch for many hours.

Sometimes he was startled by the rap of the watchman, who, when all the

world should be asleep, had caught the gleam of lamplight through the

crevices of Owen Warland’s shutters. Daylight, to the morbid

sensibility of his mind, seemed to have an intrusiveness that

interfered with his pursuits. On cloudy and inclement days, therefore,

he sat with his head upon his hands, muffling, as it were, his

sensitive brain in a mist of indefinite musings, for it was a relief to

escape from the sharp distinctness with which he was compelled to shape

out his thoughts during his nightly toil.

From one of these fits of torpor he was aroused by the entrance of

Annie Hovenden, who came into the shop with the freedom of a customer,

and also with something of the familiarity of a childish friend. She

had worn a hole through her silver thimble, and wanted Owen to repair

it.

“But I don’t know whether you will condescend to such a task,” said

she, laughing, “now that you are so taken up with the notion of putting

spirit into machinery.”

“Where did you get that idea, Annie?” said Owen, starting in surprise.

“Oh, out of my own head,” answered she, “and from something that I

heard you say, long ago, when you were but a boy and I a little child.

But come, will you mend this poor thimble of mine?”

“Anything for your sake, Annie,” said Owen Warland,—“anything, even

were it to work at Robert Danforth’s forge.”

“And that would be a pretty sight!” retorted Annie, glancing with

imperceptible slightness at the artist’s small and slender frame.

“Well; here is the thimble.”

“But that is a strange idea of yours,” said Owen, “about the

spiritualization of matter.”

And then the thought stole into his mind that this young girl possessed

the gift to comprehend him better than all the world besides. And what

a help and strength would it be to him in his lonely toil if he could

gain the sympathy of the only being whom he loved! To persons whose

pursuits are insulated from the common business of life—who are either

in advance of mankind or apart from it—there often comes a sensation of

moral cold that makes the spirit shiver as if it had reached the frozen

solitudes around the pole.

What the prophet, the poet, the reformer,

the criminal, or any other man with human yearnings, but separated from

the multitude by a peculiar lot, might feel, poor Owen felt.

“Annie,” cried he, growing pale as death at the thought, “how gladly

would I tell you the secret of my pursuit! You, methinks, would

estimate it rightly. You, I know, would hear it with a reverence that I

must not expect from the harsh, material world.”

“Would I not? to be sure I would!” replied Annie Hovenden, lightly

laughing. “Come; explain to me quickly what is the meaning of this

little whirligig, so delicately wrought that it might be a plaything

for Queen Mab. See! I will put it in motion.”

“Hold!” exclaimed Owen, “hold!”

Annie had but given the slightest possible touch, with the point of a

needle, to the same minute portion of complicated machinery which has

been more than once mentioned, when the artist seized her by the wrist

with a force that made her scream aloud. She was affrighted at the

convulsion of intense rage and anguish that writhed across his

features. The next instant he let his head sink upon his hands.

“Go, Annie,” murmured he; “I have deceived myself, and must suffer for

it. I yearned for sympathy, and thought, and fancied, and dreamed that

you might give it me; but you lack the talisman, Annie, that should

admit you into my secrets. That touch has undone the toil of months and

the thought of a lifetime! It was not your fault, Annie; but you have

ruined me!”

Poor Owen Warland! He had indeed erred, yet pardonably; for if any

human spirit could have sufficiently reverenced the processes so sacred

in his eyes, it must have been a woman’s. Even Annie Hovenden, possibly

might not have disappointed him had she been enlightened by the deep

intelligence of love.

The artist spent the ensuing winter in a way that satisfied any persons

who had hitherto retained a hopeful opinion of him that he was, in

truth, irrevocably doomed to unutility as regarded the world, and to an

evil destiny on his own part. The decease of a relative had put him in

possession of a small inheritance. Thus freed from the necessity of

toil, and having lost the steadfast influence of a great

purpose,—great, at least, to him,—he abandoned himself to habits from

which it might have been supposed the mere delicacy of his organization

would have availed to secure him.

But when the ethereal portion of a

man of genius is obscured the earthly part assumes an influence the

more uncontrollable, because the character is now thrown off the

balance to which Providence had so nicely adjusted it, and which, in

coarser natures, is adjusted by some other method. Owen Warland made

proof of whatever show of bliss may be found in riot. He looked at the

world through the golden medium of wine, and contemplated the visions

that bubble up so gayly around the brim of the glass, and that people

the air with shapes of pleasant madness, which so soon grow ghostly and

forlorn. Even when this dismal and inevitable change had taken place,

the young man might still have continued to quaff the cup of

enchantments, though its vapor did but shroud life in gloom and fill

the gloom with spectres that mocked at him. There was a certain

irksomeness of spirit, which, being real, and the deepest sensation of

which the artist was now conscious, was more intolerable than any

fantastic miseries and horrors that the abuse of wine could summon up.

In the latter case he could remember, even out of the midst of his

trouble, that all was but a delusion; in the former, the heavy anguish

was his actual life.

From this perilous state he was redeemed by an incident which more than

one person witnessed, but of which the shrewdest could not explain or

conjecture the operation on Owen Warland’s mind. It was very simple. On

a warm afternoon of spring, as the artist sat among his riotous

companions with a glass of wine before him, a splendid butterfly flew

in at the open window and fluttered about his head.

“Ah,” exclaimed Owen, who had drank freely, “are you alive again, child

of the sun and playmate of the summer breeze, after your dismal

winter’s nap? Then it is time for me to be at work!”

And, leaving his unemptied glass upon the table, he departed and was

never known to sip another drop of wine.

And now, again, he resumed his wanderings in the woods and fields. It

might be fancied that the bright butterfly, which had come so

spirit-like into the window as Owen sat with the rude revellers, was

indeed a spirit commissioned to recall him to the pure, ideal life that

had so etheralized him among men. It might be fancied that he went

forth to seek this spirit in its sunny haunts; for still, as in the

summer time gone by, he was seen to steal gently up wherever a

butterfly had alighted, and lose himself in contemplation of it. When

it took flight his eyes followed the winged vision, as if its airy

track would show the path to heaven.

But what could be the purpose of

the unseasonable toil, which was again resumed, as the watchman knew by

the lines of lamplight through the crevices of Owen Warland’s shutters?

The towns-people had one comprehensive explanation of all these

singularities. Owen Warland had gone mad! How universally

efficacious—how satisfactory, too, and soothing to the injured

sensibility of narrowness and dulness—is this easy method of accounting

for whatever lies beyond the world’s most ordinary scope! From St.

Paul’s days down to our poor little Artist of the Beautiful, the same

talisman had been applied to the elucidation of all mysteries in the

words or deeds of men who spoke or acted too wisely or too well. In

Owen Warland’s case the judgment of his towns-people may have been

correct. Perhaps he was mad. The lack of sympathy—that contrast between

himself and his neighbors which took away the restraint of example—was

enough to make him so. Or possibly he had caught just so much of

ethereal radiance as served to bewilder him, in an earthly sense, by

its intermixture with the common daylight.

One evening, when the artist had returned from a customary ramble and

had just thrown the lustre of his lamp on the delicate piece of work so

often interrupted, but still taken up again, as if his fate were

embodied in its mechanism, he was surprised by the entrance of old

Peter Hovenden. Owen never met this man without a shrinking of the

heart. Of all the world he was most terrible, by reason of a keen

understanding which saw so distinctly what it did see, and disbelieved

so uncompromisingly in what it could not see. On this occasion the old

watchmaker had merely a gracious word or two to say.

“Owen, my lad,” said he, “we must see you at my house to-morrow night.”

The artist began to mutter some excuse.

“Oh, but it must be so,” quoth Peter Hovenden, “for the sake of the

days when you were one of the household. What, my boy! don’t you know

that my daughter Annie is engaged to Robert Danforth? We are making an

entertainment, in our humble way, to celebrate the event.”

That little monosyllable was all he uttered; its tone seemed cold and

unconcerned to an ear like Peter Hovenden’s; and yet there was in it

the stifled outcry of the poor artist’s heart, which he compressed

within him like a man holding down an evil spirit. One slight outbreak,

however, imperceptible to the old watchmaker, he allowed himself.

Raising the instrument with which he was about to begin his work, he

let it fall upon the little system of machinery that had, anew, cost

him months of thought and toil.

It was shattered by the stroke!

Owen Warland’s story would have been no tolerable representation of the

troubled life of those who strive to create the beautiful, if, amid all

other thwarting influences, love had not interposed to steal the

cunning from his hand. Outwardly he had been no ardent or enterprising

lover; the career of his passion had confined its tumults and

vicissitudes so entirely within the artist’s imagination that Annie

herself had scarcely more than a woman’s intuitive perception of it;

but, in Owen’s view, it covered the whole field of his life. Forgetful

of the time when she had shown herself incapable of any deep response,

he had persisted in connecting all his dreams of artistical success

with Annie’s image; she was the visible shape in which the spiritual

power that he worshipped, and on whose altar he hoped to lay a not

unworthy offering, was made manifest to him. Of course he had deceived

himself; there were no such attributes in Annie Hovenden as his

imagination had endowed her with. She, in the aspect which she wore to

his inward vision, was as much a creature of his own as the mysterious

piece of mechanism would be were it ever realized. Had he become

convinced of his mistake through the medium of successful love,—had he

won Annie to his bosom, and there beheld her fade from angel into

ordinary woman,—the disappointment might have driven him back, with

concentrated energy, upon his sole remaining object. On the other hand,

had he found Annie what he fancied, his lot would have been so rich in

beauty that out of its mere redundancy he might have wrought the

beautiful into many a worthier type than he had toiled for; but the

guise in which his sorrow came to him, the sense that the angel of his

life had been snatched away and given to a rude man of earth and iron,

who could neither need nor appreciate her ministrations,—this was the

very perversity of fate that makes human existence appear too absurd

and contradictory to be the scene of one other hope or one other fear.

There was nothing left for Owen Warland but to sit down like a man that

had been stunned.

He went through a fit of illness. After his recovery his small and

slender frame assumed an obtuser garniture of flesh than it had ever

before worn. His thin cheeks became round; his delicate little hand, so

spiritually fashioned to achieve fairy task-work, grew plumper than the

hand of a thriving infant. His aspect had a childishness such as might

have induced a stranger to pat him on the head—pausing, however, in the

act, to wonder what manner of child was here.

It was as if the spirit

had gone out of him, leaving the body to flourish in a sort of

vegetable existence. Not that Owen Warland was idiotic. He could talk,

and not irrationally. Somewhat of a babbler, indeed, did people begin

to think him; for he was apt to discourse at wearisome length of

marvels of mechanism that he had read about in books, but which he had

learned to consider as absolutely fabulous. Among them he enumerated

the Man of Brass, constructed by Albertus Magnus, and the Brazen Head

of Friar Bacon; and, coming down to later times, the automata of a

little coach and horses, which it was pretended had been manufactured

for the Dauphin of France; together with an insect that buzzed about

the ear like a living fly, and yet was but a contrivance of minute

steel springs. There was a story, too, of a duck that waddled, and

quacked, and ate; though, had any honest citizen purchased it for

dinner, he would have found himself cheated with the mere mechanical

apparition of a duck.

“But all these accounts,” said Owen Warland, “I am now satisfied are

mere impositions.”

Then, in a mysterious way, he would confess that he once thought

differently. In his idle and dreamy days he had considered it possible,

in a certain sense, to spiritualize machinery, and to combine with the

new species of life and motion thus produced a beauty that should

attain to the ideal which Nature has proposed to herself in all her

creatures, but has never taken pains to realize. He seemed, however, to

retain no very distinct perception either of the process of achieving

this object or of the design itself.

“I have thrown it all aside now,” he would say. “It was a dream such as

young men are always mystifying themselves with. Now that I have

acquired a little common sense, it makes me laugh to think of it.”

Poor, poor and fallen Owen Warland! These were the symptoms that he had

ceased to be an inhabitant of the better sphere that lies unseen around

us. He had lost his faith in the invisible, and now prided himself, as

such unfortunates invariably do, in the wisdom which rejected much that

even his eye could see, and trusted confidently in nothing but what his

hand could touch. This is the calamity of men whose spiritual part dies

out of them and leaves the grosser understanding to assimilate them

more and more to the things of which alone it can take cognizance; but

in Owen Warland the spirit was not dead nor passed away; it only slept.

How it awoke again is not recorded. Perhaps the torpid slumber was

broken by a convulsive pain.

Perhaps, as in a former instance, the

butterfly came and hovered about his head and reinspired him,—as indeed

this creature of the sunshine had always a mysterious mission for the

artist,—reinspired him with the former purpose of his life. Whether it

were pain or happiness that thrilled through his veins, his first

impulse was to thank Heaven for rendering him again the being of

thought, imagination, and keenest sensibility that he had long ceased

to be.

“Now for my task,” said he. “Never did I feel such strength for it as

now.”

Yet, strong as he felt himself, he was incited to toil the more

diligently by an anxiety lest death should surprise him in the midst of

his labors. This anxiety, perhaps, is common to all men who set their

hearts upon anything so high, in their own view of it, that life

becomes of importance only as conditional to its accomplishment. So

long as we love life for itself, we seldom dread the losing it. When we

desire life for the attainment of an object, we recognize the frailty

of its texture. But, side by side with this sense of insecurity, there

is a vital faith in our invulnerability to the shaft of death while

engaged in any task that seems assigned by Providence as our proper

thing to do, and which the world would have cause to mourn for should

we leave it unaccomplished. Can the philosopher, big with the

inspiration of an idea that is to reform mankind, believe that he is to

be beckoned from this sensible existence at the very instant when he is

mustering his breath to speak the word of light? Should he perish so,

the weary ages may pass away—the world’s, whose life sand may fall,

drop by drop—before another intellect is prepared to develop the truth

that might have been uttered then. But history affords many an example

where the most precious spirit, at any particular epoch manifested in

human shape, has gone hence untimely, without space allowed him, so far

as mortal judgment could discern, to perform his mission on the earth.

The prophet dies, and the man of torpid heart and sluggish brain lives

on. The poet leaves his song half sung, or finishes it, beyond the

scope of mortal ears, in a celestial choir. The painter—as Allston

did—leaves half his conception on the canvas to sadden us with its

imperfect beauty, and goes to picture forth the whole, if it be no

irreverence to say so, in the hues of heaven. But rather such

incomplete designs of this life will be perfected nowhere.

This so

frequent abortion of man’s dearest projects must be taken as a proof

that the deeds of earth, however etherealized by piety or genius, are

without value, except as exercises and manifestations of the spirit. In

heaven, all ordinary thought is higher and more melodious than Milton’s

song. Then, would he add another verse to any strain that he had left

unfinished here?

But to return to Owen Warland. It was his fortune, good or ill, to

achieve the purpose of his life. Pass we over a long space of intense

thought, yearning effort, minute toil, and wasting anxiety, succeeded

by an instant of solitary triumph: let all this be imagined; and then

behold the artist, on a winter evening, seeking admittance to Robert

Danforth’s fireside circle. There he found the man of iron, with his

massive substance thoroughly warmed and attempered by domestic

influences. And there was Annie, too, now transformed into a matron,

with much of her husband’s plain and sturdy nature, but imbued, as Owen

Warland still believed, with a finer grace, that might enable her to be

the interpreter between strength and beauty. It happened, likewise,

that old Peter Hovenden was a guest this evening at his daughter’s

fireside, and it was his well-remembered expression of keen, cold

criticism that first encountered the artist’s glance.

“My old friend Owen!” cried Robert Danforth, starting up, and

compressing the artist’s delicate fingers within a hand that was

accustomed to gripe bars of iron. “This is kind and neighborly to come

to us at last. I was afraid your perpetual motion had bewitched you out

of the remembrance of old times.”

“We are glad to see you,” said Annie, while a blush reddened her

matronly cheek. “It was not like a friend to stay from us so long.”

“Well, Owen,” inquired the old watchmaker, as his first greeting, “how

comes on the beautiful? Have you created it at last?”

The artist did not immediately reply, being startled by the apparition

of a young child of strength that was tumbling about on the carpet,—a

little personage who had come mysteriously out of the infinite, but

with something so sturdy and real in his composition that he seemed

moulded out of the densest substance which earth could supply. This

hopeful infant crawled towards the new-comer, and setting himself on

end, as Robert Danforth expressed the posture, stared at Owen with a

look of such sagacious observation that the mother could not help

exchanging a proud glance with her husband.

But the artist was

disturbed by the child’s look, as imagining a resemblance between it

and Peter Hovenden’s habitual expression. He could have fancied that

the old watchmaker was compressed into this baby shape, and looking out

of those baby eyes, and repeating, as he now did, the malicious

question: “The beautiful, Owen! How comes on the beautiful? Have you

succeeded in creating the beautiful?”

“I have succeeded,” replied the artist, with a momentary light of

triumph in his eyes and a smile of sunshine, yet steeped in such depth

of thought that it was almost sadness. “Yes, my friends, it is the

truth. I have succeeded.”

“Indeed!” cried Annie, a look of maiden mirthfulness peeping out of her

face again. “And is it lawful, now, to inquire what the secret is?”

“Surely; it is to disclose it that I have come,” answered Owen Warland.

“You shall know, and see, and touch, and possess the secret! For,

Annie,—if by that name I may still address the friend of my boyish

years,—Annie, it is for your bridal gift that I have wrought this

spiritualized mechanism, this harmony of motion, this mystery of

beauty. It comes late, indeed; but it is as we go onward in life, when

objects begin to lose their freshness of hue and our souls their

delicacy of perception, that the spirit of beauty is most needed.

If,—forgive me, Annie,—if you know how—to value this gift, it can never

come too late.”

He produced, as he spoke, what seemed a jewel box. It was carved richly

out of ebony by his own hand, and inlaid with a fanciful tracery of

pearl, representing a boy in pursuit of a butterfly, which, elsewhere,

had become a winged spirit, and was flying heavenward; while the boy,

or youth, had found such efficacy in his strong desire that he ascended

from earth to cloud, and from cloud to celestial atmosphere, to win the

beautiful. This case of ebony the artist opened, and bade Annie place

her fingers on its edge. She did so, but almost screamed as a butterfly

fluttered forth, and, alighting on her finger’s tip, sat waving the

ample magnificence of its purple and gold-speckled wings, as if in

prelude to a flight. It is impossible to express by words the glory,

the splendor, the delicate gorgeousness which were softened into the

beauty of this object. Nature’s ideal butterfly was here realized in

all its perfection; not in the pattern of such faded insects as flit

among earthly flowers, but of those which hover across the meads of

paradise for child-angels and the spirits of departed infants to

disport themselves with.

The rich down was visible upon its wings; the

lustre of its eyes seemed instinct with spirit. The firelight glimmered

around this wonder—the candles gleamed upon it; but it glistened

apparently by its own radiance, and illuminated the finger and

outstretched hand on which it rested with a white gleam like that of

precious stones. In its perfect beauty, the consideration of size was

entirely lost. Had its wings overreached the firmament, the mind could

not have been more filled or satisfied.

“Beautiful! beautiful!” exclaimed Annie. “Is it alive? Is it alive?”

“Alive? To be sure it is,” answered her husband. “Do you suppose any

mortal has skill enough to make a butterfly, or would put himself to

the trouble of making one, when any child may catch a score of them in

a summer’s afternoon? Alive? Certainly! But this pretty box is

undoubtedly of our friend Owen’s manufacture; and really it does him

credit.”

At this moment the butterfly waved its wings anew, with a motion so

absolutely lifelike that Annie was startled, and even awestricken; for,

in spite of her husband’s opinion, she could not satisfy herself

whether it was indeed a living creature or a piece of wondrous

mechanism.

“Is it alive?” she repeated, more earnestly than before.

“Judge for yourself,” said Owen Warland, who stood gazing in her face

with fixed attention.

The butterfly now flung itself upon the air, fluttered round Annie’s

head, and soared into a distant region of the parlor, still making

itself perceptible to sight by the starry gleam in which the motion of

its wings enveloped it. The infant on the floor followed its course

with his sagacious little eyes. After flying about the room, it

returned in a spiral curve and settled again on Annie’s finger.

“But is it alive?” exclaimed she again; and the finger on which the

gorgeous mystery had alighted was so tremulous that the butterfly was

forced to balance himself with his wings. “Tell me if it be alive, or

whether you created it.”

“Wherefore ask who created it, so it be beautiful?” replied Owen

Warland. “Alive? Yes, Annie; it may well be said to possess life, for

it has absorbed my own being into itself; and in the secret of that

butterfly, and in its beauty,—which is not merely outward, but deep as

its whole system,—is represented the intellect, the imagination, the

sensibility, the soul of an Artist of the Beautiful! Yes; I created it.

But”—and here his countenance somewhat changed—“this butterfly is not

now to me what it was when I beheld it afar off in the daydreams of my

youth.

“Be it what it may, it is a pretty plaything,” said the blacksmith,

grinning with childlike delight. “I wonder whether it would condescend

to alight on such a great clumsy finger as mine? Hold it hither,

Annie.”

By the artist’s direction, Annie touched her finger’s tip to that of

her husband; and, after a momentary delay, the butterfly fluttered from

one to the other. It preluded a second flight by a similar, yet not

precisely the same, waving of wings as in the first experiment; then,

ascending from the blacksmith’s stalwart finger, it rose in a gradually

enlarging curve to the ceiling, made one wide sweep around the room,

and returned with an undulating movement to the point whence it had

started.

“Well, that does beat all nature!” cried Robert Danforth, bestowing the

heartiest praise that he could find expression for; and, indeed, had he

paused there, a man of finer words and nicer perception could not

easily have said more. “That goes beyond me, I confess. But what then?

There is more real use in one downright blow of my sledge hammer than

in the whole five years’ labor that our friend Owen has wasted on this

butterfly.”

Here the child clapped his hands and made a great babble of indistinct

utterance, apparently demanding that the butterfly should be given him

for a plaything.

Owen Warland, meanwhile, glanced sidelong at Annie, to discover whether

she sympathized in her husband’s estimate of the comparative value of

the beautiful and the practical. There was, amid all her kindness

towards himself, amid all the wonder and admiration with which she

contemplated the marvellous work of his hands and incarnation of his

idea, a secret scorn—too secret, perhaps, for her own consciousness,

and perceptible only to such intuitive discernment as that of the

artist. But Owen, in the latter stages of his pursuit, had risen out of

the region in which such a discovery might have been torture. He knew

that the world, and Annie as the representative of the world, whatever

praise might be bestowed, could never say the fitting word nor feel the

fitting sentiment which should be the perfect recompense of an artist

who, symbolizing a lofty moral by a material trifle,—converting what

was earthly to spiritual gold,—had won the beautiful into his

handiwork. Not at this latest moment was he to learn that the reward of

all high performance must be sought within itself, or sought in vain.

There was, however, a view of the matter which Annie and her husband,

and even Peter Hovenden, might fully have understood, and which would

have satisfied them that the toil of years had here been worthily

bestowed. Owen Warland might have told them that this butterfly, this

plaything, this bridal gift of a poor watchmaker to a blacksmith’s

wife, was, in truth, a gem of art that a monarch would have purchased

with honors and abundant wealth, and have treasured it among the jewels

of his kingdom as the most unique and wondrous of them all. But the

artist smiled and kept the secret to himself.

“Father,” said Annie, thinking that a word of praise from the old

watchmaker might gratify his former apprentice, “do come and admire

this pretty butterfly.”

“Let us see,” said Peter Hovenden, rising from his chair, with a sneer

upon his face that always made people doubt, as he himself did, in

everything but a material existence. “Here is my finger for it to

alight upon. I shall understand it better when once I have touched it.”

But, to the increased astonishment of Annie, when the tip of her

father’s finger was pressed against that of her husband, on which the

butterfly still rested, the insect drooped its wings and seemed on the

point of falling to the floor. Even the bright spots of gold upon its

wings and body, unless her eyes deceived her, grew dim, and the glowing

purple took a dusky hue, and the starry lustre that gleamed around the

blacksmith’s hand became faint and vanished.

“It is dying! it is dying!” cried Annie, in alarm.

“It has been delicately wrought,” said the artist, calmly. “As I told

you, it has imbibed a spiritual essence—call it magnetism, or what you

will. In an atmosphere of doubt and mockery its exquisite

susceptibility suffers torture, as does the soul of him who instilled

his own life into it. It has already lost its beauty; in a few moments

more its mechanism would be irreparably injured.”

“Take away your hand, father!” entreated Annie, turning pale. “Here is

my child; let it rest on his innocent hand. There, perhaps, its life

will revive and its colors grow brighter than ever.”

Her father, with an acrid smile, withdrew his finger. The butterfly

then appeared to recover the power of voluntary motion, while its hues

assumed much of their original lustre, and the gleam of starlight,

which was its most ethereal attribute, again formed a halo round about

it.

At first, when transferred from Robert Danforth’s hand to the small

finger of the child, this radiance grew so powerful that it positively

threw the little fellow’s shadow back against the wall. He, meanwhile,

extended his plump hand as he had seen his father and mother do, and

watched the waving of the insect’s wings with infantine delight.

Nevertheless, there was a certain odd expression of sagacity that made

Owen Warland feel as if here were old Pete Hovenden, partially, and but

partially, redeemed from his hard scepticism into childish faith.

“How wise the little monkey looks!” whispered Robert Danforth to his

wife.

“I never saw such a look on a child’s face,” answered Annie, admiring

her own infant, and with good reason, far more than the artistic

butterfly. “The darling knows more of the mystery than we do.”

As if the butterfly, like the artist, were conscious of something not

entirely congenial in the child’s nature, it alternately sparkled and

grew dim. At length it arose from the small hand of the infant with an

airy motion that seemed to bear it upward without an effort, as if the

ethereal instincts with which its master’s spirit had endowed it

impelled this fair vision involuntarily to a higher sphere. Had there

been no obstruction, it might have soared into the sky and grown

immortal. But its lustre gleamed upon the ceiling; the exquisite

texture of its wings brushed against that earthly medium; and a sparkle

or two, as of stardust, floated downward and lay glimmering on the

carpet. Then the butterfly came fluttering down, and, instead of

returning to the infant, was apparently attracted towards the artist’s

hand.

“Not so! not so!” murmured Owen Warland, as if his handiwork could have

understood him. “Thou has gone forth out of thy master’s heart. There

is no return for thee.”

With a wavering movement, and emitting a tremulous radiance, the

butterfly struggled, as it were, towards the infant, and was about to

alight upon his finger; but while it still hovered in the air, the

little child of strength, with his grandsire’s sharp and shrewd

expression in his face, made a snatch at the marvellous insect and

compressed it in his hand. Annie screamed. Old Peter Hovenden burst

into a cold and scornful laugh. The blacksmith, by main force, unclosed

the infant’s hand, and found within the palm a small heap of glittering

fragments, whence the mystery of beauty had fled forever. And as for

Owen Warland, he looked placidly at what seemed the ruin of his life’s

labor, and which was yet no ruin. He had caught a far other butterfly

than this.

When the artist rose high enough to achieve the beautiful,

the symbol by which he made it perceptible to mortal senses became of

little value in his eyes while his spirit possessed itself in the

enjoyment of the reality.

Chapter 26.

A VIRTUOSO’S COLLECTION.

The other day, having a leisure hour at my disposal, I stepped into a

new museum, to which my notice was casually drawn by a small and

unobtrusive sign: “TO BE SEEN HERE, A VIRTUOSO’S COLLECTION.” Such was

the simple yet not altogether unpromising announcement that turned my

steps aside for a little while from the sunny sidewalk of our principal

thoroughfare. Mounting a sombre staircase, I pushed open a door at its

summit, and found myself in the presence of a person, who mentioned the

moderate sum that would entitle me to admittance.

“Three shillings, Massachusetts tenor,” said he. “No, I mean half a

dollar, as you reckon in these days.”

While searching my pocket for the coin I glanced at the doorkeeper, the

marked character and individuality of whose aspect encouraged me to

expect something not quite in the ordinary way. He wore an

old-fashioned great-coat, much faded, within which his meagre person

was so completely enveloped that the rest of his attire was

undistinguishable. But his visage was remarkably wind-flushed,

sunburnt, and weather-worn, and had a most, unquiet, nervous, and

apprehensive expression. It seemed as if this man had some

all-important object in view, some point of deepest interest to be

decided, some momentous question to ask, might he but hope for a reply.

As it was evident, however, that I could have nothing to do with his

private affairs, I passed through an open doorway, which admitted me

into the extensive hall of the museum.

Directly in front of the portal was the bronze statue of a youth with

winged feet. He was represented in the act of flitting away from earth,

yet wore such a look of earnest invitation that it impressed me like a

summons to enter the hall.

“It is the original statue of Opportunity, by the ancient sculptor

Lysippus,” said a gentleman who now approached me. “I place it at the

entrance of my museum, because it is not at all times that one can gain

admittance to such a collection.”

The speaker was a middle-aged person, of whom it was not easy to

determine whether he had spent his life as a scholar or as a man of

action; in truth, all outward and obvious peculiarities had been worn

away by an extensive and promiscuous intercourse with the world.

There

was no mark about him of profession, individual habits, or scarcely of

country; although his dark complexion and high features made me

conjecture that he was a native of some southern clime of Europe. At

all events, he was evidently the virtuoso in person.

“With your permission,” said he, “as we have no descriptive catalogue,

I will accompany you through the museum and point out whatever may be

most worthy of attention. In the first place, here is a choice

collection of stuffed animals.”

Nearest the door stood the outward semblance of a wolf, exquisitely

prepared, it is true, and showing a very wolfish fierceness in the

large glass eyes which were inserted into its wild and crafty head.

Still it was merely the skin of a wolf, with nothing to distinguish it

from other individuals of that unlovely breed.

“How does this animal deserve a place in your collection?” inquired I.

“It is the wolf that devoured Little Red Riding Hood,” answered the

virtuoso; “and by his side—with a milder and more matronly look, as you

perceive—stands the she-wolf that suckled Romulus and Remus.”

“Ah, indeed!” exclaimed I. “And what lovely lamb is this with the

snow-white fleece, which seems to be of as delicate a texture as

innocence itself?”

“Methinks you have but carelessly read Spenser,” replied my guide, “or

you would at once recognize the ‘milk-white lamb’ which Una led. But I

set no great value upon the lamb. The next specimen is better worth our

notice.”

“What!” cried I, “this strange animal, with the black head of an ox

upon the body of a white horse? Were it possible to suppose it, I

should say that this was Alexander’s steed Bucephalus.”

“The same,” said the virtuoso. “And can you likewise give a name to the

famous charger that stands beside him?”

Next to the renowned Bucephalus stood the mere skeleton of a horse,

with the white bones peeping through his ill-conditioned hide; but, if

my heart had not warmed towards that pitiful anatomy, I might as well

have quitted the museum at once. Its rarities had not been collected

with pain and toil from the four quarters of the earth, and from the

depths of the sea, and from the palaces and sepulchres of ages, for

those who could mistake this illustrious steed.

“It, is Rosinante!” exclaimed I, with enthusiasm.

And so it proved. My admiration for the noble and gallant horse caused

me to glance with less interest at the other animals, although many of

them might have deserved the notice of Cuvier himself.

There was the

donkey which Peter Bell cudgelled so soundly, and a brother of the same

species who had suffered a similar infliction from the ancient prophet

Balaam. Some doubts were entertained, however, as to the authenticity

of the latter beast. My guide pointed out the venerable Argus, that

faithful dog of Ulysses, and also another dog (for so the skin bespoke

it), which, though imperfectly preserved, seemed once to have had three

heads. It was Cerberus. I was considerably amused at detecting in an

obscure corner the fox that became so famous by the loss of his tail.

There were several stuffed cats, which, as a dear lover of that

comfortable beast, attracted my affectionate regards. One was Dr.

Johnson’s cat Hodge; and in the same row stood the favorite cats of

Mahomet, Gray, and Walter Scott, together with Puss in Boots, and a cat

of very noble aspect—who had once been a deity of ancient Egypt.

Byron’s tame bear came next. I must not forget to mention the

Eryruanthean boar, the skin of St. George’s dragon, and that of the

serpent Python; and another skin with beautifully variegated hues,

supposed to have been the garment of the “spirited sly snake,” which

tempted Eve. Against the walls were suspended the horns of the stag

that Shakespeare shot; and on the floor lay the ponderous shell of the

tortoise which fell upon the head of Aeschylus. In one row, as natural

as life, stood the sacred bull Apis, the “cow with the crumpled horn,”

and a very wild-looking young heifer, which I guessed to be the cow

that jumped over the moon. She was probably killed by the rapidity of

her descent. As I turned away, my eyes fell upon an indescribable

monster, which proved to be a griffin.

“I look in vain,” observed I, “for the skin of an animal which might

well deserve the closest study of a naturalist,—the winged horse,

Pegasus.”

“He is not yet dead,” replied the virtuoso; “but he is so hard ridden

by many young gentlemen of the day that I hope soon to add his skin and

skeleton to my collection.”

We now passed to the next alcove of the hall, in which was a multitude

of stuffed birds. They were very prettily arranged, some upon the

branches of trees, others brooding upon nests, and others suspended by

wires so artificially that they seemed in the very act of flight. Among

them was a white dove, with a withered branch of olive-leaves in her

mouth.

“Can this be the very dove,” inquired I, “that brought the message of

peace and hope to the tempest-beaten passengers of the ark?”

“Even so,” said my companion.

“And this raven, I suppose,” continued I, “is the same that fed Elijah

in the wilderness.”

“The raven? No,” said the virtuoso; “it is a bird of modern date. He

belonged to one Barnaby Rudge, and many people fancied that the Devil

himself was disguised under his sable plumage. But poor Grip has drawn

his last cork, and has been forced to ‘say die’ at last. This other

raven, hardly less curious, is that in which the soul of King George I.

revisited his lady-love, the Duchess of Kendall.”

My guide next pointed out Minerva’s owl and the vulture that preyed

upon the liver of Prometheus. There was likewise the sacred ibis of

Egypt, and one of the Stymphalides which Hercules shot in his sixth

labor. Shelley’s skylark, Bryant’s water-fowl, and a pigeon from the

belfry of the Old South Church, preserved by N. P. Willis, were placed

on the same perch. I could not but shudder on beholding Coleridge’s

albatross, transfixed with the Ancient Mariner’s crossbow shaft. Beside

this bird of awful poesy stood a gray goose of very ordinary aspect.

“Stuffed goose is no such rarity,” observed I. “Why do you preserve

such a specimen in your museum?”

“It is one of the flock whose cackling saved the Roman Capitol,”

answered the virtuoso. “Many geese have cackled and hissed both before

and since; but none, like those, have clamored themselves into

immortality.”

There seemed to be little else that demanded notice in this department

of the museum, unless we except Robinson Crusoe’s parrot, a live

phoenix, a footless bird of paradise, and a splendid peacock, supposed

to be the same that once contained the soul of Pythagoras. I therefore

passed to the next alcove, the shelves of which were covered with a

miscellaneous collection of curiosities such as are usually found in

similar establishments. One of the first things that took my eye was a

strange-looking cap, woven of some substance that appeared to be

neither woollen, cotton, nor linen.

“Is this a magician’s cap?” I asked.

“No,” replied the virtuoso; “it is merely Dr. Franklin’s cap of

asbestos. But here is one which, perhaps, may suit you better. It is

the wishing-cap of Fortunatus. Will you try it on?”

“By no means,” answered I, putting it aside with my hand. “The day of

wild wishes is past with me. I desire nothing that may not come in the

ordinary course of Providence.

“Then probably,” returned the virtuoso, “you will not be tempted to rub

this lamp?”

While speaking, he took from the shelf an antique brass lamp, curiously

wrought with embossed figures, but so covered with verdigris that the

sculpture was almost eaten away.

“It is a thousand years,” said he, “since the genius of this lamp

constructed Aladdin’s palace in a single night. But he still retains

his power; and the man who rubs Aladdin’s lamp has but to desire either

a palace or a cottage.”

“I might desire a cottage,” replied I; “but I would have it founded on

sure and stable truth, not on dreams and fantasies. I have learned to

look for the real and the true.”

My guide next showed me Prospero’s magic wand, broken into three

fragments by the hand of its mighty master. On the same shelf lay the

gold ring of ancient Gyges, which enabled the wearer to walk invisible.

On the other side of the alcove was a tall looking-glass in a frame of

ebony, but veiled with a curtain of purple silk, through the rents of

which the gleam of the mirror was perceptible.

“This is Cornelius Agrippa’s magic glass,” observed the virtuoso. “Draw

aside the curtain, and picture any human form within your mind, and it

will be reflected in the mirror.”

“It is enough if I can picture it within my mind,” answered I. “Why

should I wish it to be repeated in the mirror? But, indeed, these works

of magic have grown wearisome to me. There are so many greater wonders

in the world, to those who keep their eyes open and their sight

undimmed by custom, that all the delusions of the old sorcerers seem

flat and stale. Unless you can show me something really curious, I care

not to look further into your museum.”

“Ah, well, then,” said the virtuoso, composedly, “perhaps you may deem

some of my antiquarian rarities deserving of a glance.”

He pointed out the iron mask, now corroded with rust; and my heart grew

sick at the sight of this dreadful relic, which had shut out a human

being from sympathy with his race. There was nothing half so terrible

in the axe that beheaded King Charles, nor in the dagger that slew

Henry of Navarre, nor in the arrow that pierced the heart of William

Rufus,—all of which were shown to me. Many of the articles derived

their interest, such as it was, from having been formerly in the

possession of royalty. For instance, here was Charlemagne’s sheepskin

cloak, the flowing wig of Louis Quatorze, the spinning-wheel of

Sardanapalus, and King Stephen’s famous breeches which cost him but a

crown.

The heart of the Bloody Mary, with the word “Calais” worn into

its diseased substance, was preserved in a bottle of spirits; and near

it lay the golden case in which the queen of Gustavus Adolphus

treasured up that hero’s heart. Among these relics and heirlooms of

kings I must not forget the long, hairy ears of Midas, and a piece of

bread which had been changed to gold by the touch of that unlucky

monarch. And as Grecian Helen was a queen, it may here be mentioned

that I was permitted to take into my hand a lock of her golden hair and

the bowl which a sculptor modelled from the curve of her perfect

breast. Here, likewise, was the robe that smothered Agamemnon, Nero’s

fiddle, the Czar Peter’s brandy-bottle, the crown of Semiramis, and

Canute’s sceptre which he extended over the sea. That my own land may

not deem itself neglected, let me add that I was favored with a sight

of the skull of King Philip, the famous Indian chief, whose head the

Puritans smote off and exhibited upon a pole.

“Show me something else,” said I to the virtuoso. “Kings are in such an

artificial position that people in the ordinary walks of life cannot

feel an interest in their relics. If you could show me the straw hat of

sweet little Nell, I would far rather see it than a king’s golden

crown.”

“There it is,” said my guide, pointing carelessly with his staff to the

straw hat in question. “But, indeed, you are hard to please. Here are

the seven-league boots. Will you try them on?”

“Our modern railroads have superseded their use,” answered I; “and as

to these cowhide boots, I could show you quite as curious a pair at the

Transcendental community in Roxbury.”

We next examined a collection of swords and other weapons, belonging to

different epochs, but thrown together without much attempt at

arrangement. Here Was Arthur’s sword Excalibar, and that of the Cid

Campeader, and the sword of Brutus rusted with Caesar’s blood and his

own, and the sword of Joan of Arc, and that of Horatius, and that with

which Virginius slew his daughter, and the one which Dionysius

suspended over the head of Damocles. Here also was Arria’s sword, which

she plunged into her own breast, in order to taste of death before her

husband. The crooked blade of Saladin’s cimeter next attracted my

notice. I know not by what chance, but so it happened, that the sword

of one of our own militia generals was suspended between Don Quixote’s

lance and the brown blade of Hudibras. My heart throbbed high at the

sight of the helmet of Miltiades and the spear that was broken in the

breast of Epaminondas.

I recognized the shield of Achilles by its

resemblance to the admirable cast in the possession of Professor

Felton. Nothing in this apartment interested me more than Major

Pitcairn’s pistol, the discharge of which, at Lexington, began the war

of the Revolution, and was reverberated in thunder around the land for

seven long years. The bow of Ulysses, though unstrung for ages, was

placed against the wall, together with a sheaf of Robin Hood’s arrows

and the rifle of Daniel Boone.

“Enough of weapons,” said I, at length; “although I would gladly have

seen the sacred shield which fell from heaven in the time of Numa. And

surely you should obtain the sword which Washington unsheathed at

Cambridge. But the collection does you much credit. Let us pass on.”

In the next alcove we saw the golden thigh of Pythagoras, which had so

divine a meaning; and, by one of the queer analogies to which the

virtuoso seemed to be addicted, this ancient emblem lay on the same

shelf with Peter Stuyvesant’s wooden leg, that was fabled to be of

silver. Here was a remnant of the Golden Fleece, and a sprig of yellow

leaves that resembled the foliage of a frost-bitten elm, but was duly

authenticated as a portion of the golden branch by which AEneas gained

admittance to the realm of Pluto. Atalanta’s golden apple and one of

the apples of discord were wrapped in the napkin of gold which

Rampsinitus brought from Hades; and the whole were deposited in the

golden vase of Bias, with its inscription: “TO THE WISEST.”

“And how did you obtain this vase?” said I to the virtuoso.

“It was given me long ago,” replied he, with a scornful expression in

his eye, “because I had learned to despise all things.”

It had not escaped me that, though the virtuoso was evidently a man of

high cultivation, yet he seemed to lack sympathy with the spiritual,

the sublime, and the tender. Apart from the whim that had led him to

devote so much time, pains, and expense to the collection of this

museum, he impressed me as one of the hardest and coldest men of the

world whom I had ever met.

“To despise all things!” repeated I. “This, at best, is the wisdom of

the understanding. It is the creed of a man whose soul, whose better

and diviner part, has never been awakened, or has died out of him.”

“I did not think that you were still so young,” said the virtuoso.

“Should you live to my years, you will acknowledge that the vase of

Bias was not ill bestowed.”

Without further discussion of the point, he directed my attention to

other curiosities.

I examined Cinderella’s little glass slipper, and

compared it with one of Diana’s sandals, and with Fanny Elssler’s shoe,

which bore testimony to the muscular character of her illustrious foot.

On the same shelf were Thomas the Rhymer’s green velvet shoes, and the

brazen shoe of Empedocles which was thrown out of Mount AEtna.

Anacreon’s drinking-cup was placed in apt juxtaposition with one of Tom

Moore’s wine-glasses and Circe’s magic bowl. These were symbols of

luxury and riot; but near them stood the cup whence Socrates drank his

hemlock, and that which Sir Philip Sidney put from his death-parched

lips to bestow the draught upon a dying soldier. Next appeared a

cluster of tobacco-pipes, consisting of Sir Walter Raleigh’s, the

earliest on record, Dr. Parr’s, Charles Lamb’s, and the first calumet

of peace which was ever smoked between a European and an Indian. Among

other musical instruments, I noticed the lyre of Orpheus and those of

Homer and Sappho, Dr. Franklin’s famous whistle, the trumpet of Anthony

Van Corlear, and the flute which Goldsmith played upon in his rambles

through the French provinces. The staff of Peter the Hermit stood in a

corner with that of good old Bishop Jewel, and one of ivory, which had

belonged to Papirius, the Roman senator. The ponderous club of Hercules

was close at hand. The virtuoso showed me the chisel of Phidias,

Claude’s palette, and the brush of Apelles, observing that he intended

to bestow the former either on Greenough, Crawford, or Powers, and the

two latter upon Washington Allston. There was a small vase of oracular

gas from Delphos, which I trust will be submitted to the scientific

analysis of Professor Silliman. I was deeply moved on beholding a vial

of the tears into which Niobe was dissolved; nor less so on learning

that a shapeless fragment of salt was a relic of that victim of

despondency and sinful regrets,—Lot’s wife. My companion appeared to

set great value upon some Egyptian darkness in a blacking-jug. Several

of the shelves were covered by a collection of coins, among which,

however, I remember none but the Splendid Shilling, celebrated by

Phillips, and a dollar’s worth of the iron money of Lycurgus, weighing

about fifty pounds.

Walking carelessly onward, I had nearly fallen over a huge bundle, like

a peddler’s pack, done up in sackcloth, and very securely strapped and

corded.

“It is Christian’s burden of sin,” said the virtuoso.

“O, pray let us open it!” cried I. “For many a year I have longed to

know its contents.”

“Look into your own consciousness and memory,” replied the virtuoso.

“You will there find a list of whatever it contains.”

As this was all undeniable truth, I threw a melancholy look at the

burden and passed on. A collection of old garments, banging on pegs,

was worthy of some attention, especially the shirt of Nessus, Caesar’s

mantle, Joseph’s coat of many colors, the Vicar of Bray’s cassock,

Goldsmith’s peach-bloom suit, a pair of President Jefferson’s scarlet

breeches, John Randolph’s red baize hunting-shirt, the drab

small-clothes of the Stout Gentleman, and the rags of the “man all

tattered and torn.” George Fox’s hat impressed me with deep reverence

as a relic of perhaps the truest apostle that has appeared on earth for

these eighteen hundred years. My eye was next attracted by an old pair

of shears, which I should have taken for a memorial of some famous

tailor, only that the virtuoso pledged his veracity that they were the

identical scissors of Atropos. He also showed me a broken hourglass

which had been thrown aside by Father Time, together with the old

gentleman’s gray forelock, tastefully braided into a brooch. In the

hour-glass was the handful of sand, the grains of which had numbered

the years of the Cumeean sibyl. I think it was in this alcove that I

saw the inkstand which Luther threw at the Devil, and the ring which

Essex, while under sentence of death, sent to Queen Elizabeth. And here

was the blood-incrusted pen of steel with which Faust signed away his

salvation.

The virtuoso now opened the door of a closet and showed me a lamp

burning, while three others stood unlighted by its side. One of the

three was the lamp of Diogenes, another that of Guy Fawkes, and the

third that which Hero set forth to the midnight breeze in the high

tower of Ahydos.

“See!” said the virtuoso, blowing with all his force at the lighted

lamp.

The flame quivered and shrank away from his breath, but clung to the

wick, and resumed its brilliancy as soon as the blast was exhausted.

“It is an undying lamp from the tomb of Charlemagne,” observed my

guide. “That flame was kindled a thousand years ago.”

“How ridiculous to kindle an unnatural light in tombs!” exclaimed I.

“We should seek to behold the dead in the light of heaven. But what is

the meaning of this chafing-dish of glowing coals?”

“That,” answered the virtuoso, “is the original fire which Prometheus

stole from heaven. Look steadfastly into it, and you will discern

another curiosity.

”

I gazed into that fire,—which, symbolically, was the origin of all that

was bright and glorious in the soul of man,—and in the midst of it,

behold a little reptile, sporting with evident enjoyment of the fervid

heat! It was a salamander.

“What a sacrilege!” cried I, with inexpressible disgust. “Can you find

no better use for this ethereal fire than to cherish a loathsome

reptile in it? Yet there are men who abuse the sacred fire of their own

souls to as foul and guilty a purpose.”

The virtuoso made no answer except by a dry laugh and an assurance that

the salamander was the very same which Benvenuto Cellini had seen in

his father’s household fire. He then proceeded to show me other

rarities; for this closet appeared to be the receptacle of what he

considered most valuable in his collection.

“There,” said he, “is the Great Carbuncle of the White Mountains.”

I gazed with no little interest at this mighty gem, which it had been

one of the wild projects of my youth to discover. Possibly it might

have looked brighter to me in those days than now; at all events, it

had not such brilliancy as to detain me long from the other articles of

the museum. The virtuoso pointed out to me a crystalline stone which

hung by a gold chain against the wall.

“That is the philosopher’s stone,” said he.

“And have you the elixir vita which generally accompanies it?” inquired

I.

“Even so; this urn is filled with it,” he replied. “A draught would

refresh you. Here is Hebe’s cup; will you quaff a health from it?”

My heart thrilled within me at the idea of such a reviving draught; for

methought I had great need of it after travelling so far on the dusty

road of life. But I know not whether it were a peculiar glance in the

virtuoso’s eye, or the circumstance that this most precious liquid was

contained in an antique sepulchral urn, that made me pause. Then came

many a thought with which, in the calmer and better hours of life, I

had strengthened myself to feel that Death is the very friend whom, in

his due season, even the happiest mortal should be willing to embrace.

“No; I desire not an earthly immortality,” said I.

“Were man to live longer on the earth, the spiritual would die out of

him. The spark of ethereal fire would be choked by the material, the

sensual. There is a celestial something within us that requires, after

a certain time, the atmosphere of heaven to preserve it from decay and

ruin. I will have none of this liquid. You do well to keep it in a

sepulchral urn; for it would produce death while bestowing the shadow

of life.

“All this is unintelligible to me,” responded my guide, with

indifference. “Life—earthly life—is the only good. But you refuse the

draught? Well, it is not likely to be offered twice within one man’s

experience. Probably you have griefs which you seek to forget in death.

I can enable you to forget them in life. Will you take a draught of

Lethe?”

As he spoke, the virtuoso took from the shelf a crystal vase containing

a sable liquor, which caught no reflected image from the objects

around.

“Not for the world!” exclaimed I, shrinking back. “I can spare none of

my recollections, not even those of error or sorrow. They are all alike

the food of my spirit. As well never to have lived as to lose them

now.”

Without further parley we passed to the next alcove, the shelves of

which were burdened with ancient volumes and with those rolls of

papyrus in which was treasured up the eldest wisdom of the earth.

Perhaps the most valuable work in the collection, to a bibliomaniac,

was the Book of Hermes. For my part, however, I would have given a

higher price for those six of the Sibyl’s books which Tarquin refused

to purchase, and which the virtuoso informed me he had himself found in

the cave of Trophonius. Doubtless these old volumes contain prophecies

of the fate of Rome, both as respects the decline and fall of her

temporal empire and the rise of her spiritual one. Not without value,

likewise, was the work of Anaxagoras on Nature, hitherto supposed to be

irrecoverably lost, and the missing treatises of Longinus, by which

modern criticism might profit, and those books of Livy for which the

classic student has so long sorrowed without hope. Among these precious

tomes I observed the original manuscript of the Koran, and also that of

the Mormon Bible in Joe Smith’s authentic autograph. Alexander’s copy

of the Iliad was also there, enclosed in the jewelled casket of Darius,

still fragrant of the perfumes which the Persian kept in it.

Opening an iron-clasped volume, bound in black leather, I discovered it

to be Cornelius Agrippa’s book of magic; and it was rendered still more

interesting by the fact that many flowers, ancient and modern, were

pressed between its leaves. Here was a rose from Eve’s bridal bower,

and all those red and white roses which were plucked in the garden of

the Temple by the partisans of York and Lancaster. Here was Halleck’s

Wild Rose of Alloway. Cowper had contributed a Sensitive Plant, and

Wordsworth an Eglantine, and Burns a Mountain Daisy, and Kirke White a

Star of Bethlehem, and Longfellow a Sprig of Fennel, with its yellow

flowers.

James Russell Lowell had given a Pressed Flower, but fragrant

still, which had been shadowed in the Rhine. There was also a sprig

from Southey’s Holly Tree. One of the most beautiful specimens was a

Fringed Gentian, which had been plucked and preserved for immortality

by Bryant. From Jones Very, a poet whose voice is scarcely heard among

us by reason of its depth, there was a Wind Flower and a Columbine.

As I closed Cornelius Agrippa’s magic volume, an old, mildewed letter

fell upon the floor. It proved to be an autograph from the Flying

Dutchman to his wife. I could linger no longer among books; for the

afternoon was waning, and there was yet much to see. The bare mention

of a few more curiosities must suffice. The immense skull of Polyphemus

was recognizable by the cavernous hollow in the centre of the forehead

where once had blazed the giant’s single eye. The tub of Diogenes,

Medea’s caldron, and Psyche’s vase of beauty were placed one within

another. Pandora’s box, without the lid, stood next, containing nothing

but the girdle of Venus, which had been carelessly flung into it. A

bundle of birch-rods which had been used by Shenstone’s schoolmistress

were tied up with the Countess of Salisbury’s garter. I know not which

to value most, a roc’s egg as big as an ordinary hogshead, or the shell

of the egg which Columbus set upon its end. Perhaps the most delicate

article in the whole museum was Queen Mab’s chariot, which, to guard it

from the touch of meddlesome fingers, was placed under a glass tumbler.

Several of the shelves were occupied by specimens of entomology.

Feeling but little interest in the science, I noticed only Anacreon’s

grasshopper, and a bumblebee which had been presented to the virtuoso

by Ralph Waldo Emerson.

In the part of the hall which we had now reached I observed a curtain,

that descended from the ceiling to the floor in voluminous folds, of a

depth, richness, and magnificence which I had never seen equalled. It

was not to be doubted that this splendid though dark and solemn veil

concealed a portion of the museum even richer in wonders than that

through which I had already passed; but, on my attempting to grasp the

edge of the curtain and draw it aside, it proved to be an illusive

picture.

“You need not blush,” remarked the virtuoso; “for that same curtain

deceived Zeuxis. It is the celebrated painting of Parrhasius.”

In a range with the curtain there were a number of other choice

pictures by artists of ancient days.

Here was the famous cluster of

grapes by Zeuxis, so admirably depicted that it seemed as if the ripe

juice were bursting forth. As to the picture of the old woman by the

same illustrious painter, and which was so ludicrous that he himself

died with laughing at it, I cannot say that it particularly moved my

risibility. Ancient humor seems to have little power over modern

muscles. Here, also, was the horse painted by Apelles which living

horses neighed at; his first portrait of Alexander the Great, and his

last unfinished picture of Venus asleep. Each of these works of art,

together with others by Parrhasius, Timanthes, Polygnotus, Apollodorus,

Pausias, and Pamplulus, required more time and study than I could

bestow for the adequate perception of their merits. I shall therefore

leave them undescribed and uncriticised, nor attempt to settle the

question of superiority between ancient and modern art.

For the same reason I shall pass lightly over the specimens of antique

sculpture which this indefatigable and fortunate virtuoso had dug out

of the dust of fallen empires. Here was AEtion’s cedar statue of

AEsculapius, much decayed, and Alcon’s iron statue of Hercules,

lamentably rusted. Here was the statue of Victory, six feet high, which

the Jupiter Olympus of Phidias had held in his hand. Here was a

forefinger of the Colossus of Rhodes, seven feet in length. Here was

the Venus Urania of Phidias, and other images of male and female beauty

or grandeur, wrought by sculptors who appeared never to have debased

their souls by the sight of any meaner forms than those of gods or

godlike mortals. But the deep simplicity of these great works was not

to be comprehended by a mind excited and disturbed, as mine was, by the

various objects that had recently been presented to it. I therefore

turned away with merely a passing glance, resolving on some future

occasion to brood over each individual statue and picture until my

inmost spirit should feel their excellence. In this department, again,

I noticed the tendency to whimsical combinations and ludicrous

analogies which seemed to influence many of the arrangements of the

museum. The wooden statue so well known as the Palladium of Troy was

placed in close apposition with the wooden head of General Jackson,

which was stolen a few years since from the bows of the frigate

Constitution.

We had now completed the circuit of the spacious hall, and found

ourselves again near the door.

Feeling somewhat wearied with the survey

of so many novelties and antiquities, I sat down upon Cowper’s sofa,

while the virtuoso threw himself carelessly into Rabelais’s easychair.

Casting my eyes upon the opposite wall, I was surprised to perceive the

shadow of a man flickering unsteadily across the wainscot, and looking

as if it were stirred by some breath of air that found its way through

the door or windows. No substantial figure was visible from which this

shadow might be thrown; nor, had there been such, was there any

sunshine that would have caused it to darken upon the wall.

“It is Peter Schlemihl’s shadow,” observed the virtuoso, “and one of

the most valuable articles in my collection.”

“Methinks a shadow would have made a fitting doorkeeper to such a

museum,” said I; “although, indeed, yonder figure has something strange

and fantastic about him, which suits well enough with many of the

impressions which I have received here. Pray, who is he?”

While speaking, I gazed more scrutinizingly than before at the

antiquated presence of the person who had admitted me, and who still

sat on his bench with the same restless aspect, and dim, confused,

questioning anxiety that I had noticed on my first entrance. At this

moment he looked eagerly towards us, and, half starting from his seat,

addressed me.

“I beseech you, kind sir,” said he, in a cracked, melancholy tone,

“have pity on the most unfortunate man in the world. For Heaven’s sake,

answer me a single question! Is this the town of Boston?”

“You have recognized him now,” said the virtuoso. “It is Peter Rugg,

the missing man. I chanced to meet him the other day still in search of

Boston, and conducted him hither; and, as he could not succeed in

finding his friends, I have taken him into my service as doorkeeper. He

is somewhat too apt to ramble, but otherwise a man of trust and

integrity.”

“And might I venture to ask,” continued I, “to whom am I indebted for

this afternoon’s gratification?”

The virtuoso, before replying, laid his hand upon an antique dart, or

javelin, the rusty steel head of winch seemed to have been blunted, as

if it had encountered the resistance of a tempered shield, or

breastplate.

“My name has not been without its distinction in the world for a longer

period than that of any other man alive,” answered he. “Yet many doubt

of my existence; perhaps you will do so to-morrow. This dart which I

hold in my hand was once grim Death’s own weapon. It served him well

for the space of four thousand years; but it fell blunted, as you see,

when he directed it against my breast.

”

These words were spoken with the calm and cold courtesy of manner that

had characterized this singular personage throughout our interview. I

fancied, it is true, that there was a bitterness indefinably mingled

with his tone, as of one cut off from natural sympathies and blasted

with a doom that had been inflicted on no other human being, and by the

results of which he had ceased to be human. Yet, withal, it seemed one

of the most terrible consequences of that doom that the victim no

longer regarded it as a calamity, but had finally accepted it as the

greatest good that could have befallen him.

“You are the Wandering Jew!” exclaimed I.

The virtuoso bowed without emotion of any kind; for, by centuries of

custom, he had almost lost the sense of strangeness in his fate, and

was but imperfectly conscious of the astonishment and awe with which it

affected such as are capable of death.

“Your doom is indeed a fearful one!” said I, with irrepressible feeling

and a frankness that afterwards startled me; “yet perhaps the ethereal

spirit is not entirely extinct under all this corrupted or frozen mass

of earthly life. Perhaps the immortal spark may yet be rekindled by a

breath of heaven. Perhaps you may yet be permitted to die before it is

too late to live eternally. You have my prayers for such a

consummation. Farewell.”

“Your prayers will be in vain,” replied he, with a smile of cold

triumph. “My destiny is linked with the realities of earth. You are

welcome to your visions and shadows of a future state; but give me what

I can see, and touch, and understand, and I ask no more.”

“It is indeed too late,” thought I. “The soul is dead within him.”

Struggling between pity and horror, I extended my hand, to which the

virtuoso gave his own, still with the habitual courtesy of a man of the

world, but without a single heart-throb of human brotherhood. The touch

seemed like ice, yet I know not whether morally or physically. As I

departed, he bade me observe that the inner door of the hall was

constructed with the ivory leaves of the gateway through which Aeneas

and the Sibyl had been dismissed from Hades.

Thank you for joining us on this chilling journey through Nathaniel

Hawthorne's 'Mosses from an Old Manse.' As the story closes, we are

left with lingering questions about the unseen forces that shape our

lives and the mysteries that may never be fully understood.

Hawthorne’s tale reminds us of the thin veil between the living and

the unknown, inviting us to reflect on the strange and haunting events

that may exist just beyond our perception. Until next time, stay

curious, stay haunted, and keep exploring the ghostly tales that

linger in the shadows.

Key Vocabulary

Vocabulary	Meanings
old /əʊld/ A1	adjective - having lived for a long time; no longer young
manse /mæns/ C1	noun - a large house, especially the house of a minister or priest
reverend /ˈrɛvərənd/ B2	adjective - worthy of respect, especially because of being old or holy
seclusion /sɪˈkluːʒən/ B2	noun - the state of being private and away from other people
solitude /ˈsɒlɪtjuːd/ B1	noun - the state of being alone, especially when this is peaceful
mansion /ˈmænʃən/ B1	noun - a large, impressive house
clergyman /ˈklɜːrdʒɪmən/ B2	noun - a man who is a member of the clergy
ancient /ˈeɪnʃənt/ B1	adjective - very old
parsonage /ˈpɑːrsənɪdʒ/ C1	noun - the house provided by a church for its parson
wooded /ˈwʊdɪd/ B2	adjective - covered with trees
avenue /ˈævənuː/ A2	noun - a wide road or path with trees on both sides
priests /priːsts/ B1	noun - a person who performs religious duties, especially in the Christian church
generations /ˌdʒɛnəˈreɪʃənz/ B1	noun - all the people of about the same age within a society or within a family
sanctity /ˈsæŋktəti/ C1	noun - the state of being holy or sacred
parson /ˈpɑːrsən/ B2	noun - a member of the clergy, especially in the Church of England
orchard /ˈɔːrtʃərd/ B1	noun - an area of land where fruit trees are grown
ghostly /ˈɡoʊstli/ B2	adjective - resembling or associated with ghosts
haunted /ˈhɔːntɪd/ B1	adjective - frightened by or worried about something
bewitched /bɪˈwɪtʃt/ B2	adjective - charmed or enchanted by something, often in a way that seems magical

Key Grammar Structures

• Between two tall gate-posts of rough-hewn stone (the gate itself having fallen from its hinges at some unknown epoch) we beheld the gray front of the old parsonage, terminating the vista of an avenue of black-ash trees.

  ➔ Participial Phrase

  ➔ The phrase "having fallen" is a participial phrase that provides additional information about the gate, acting as a verbal modifier in the sentence.

• It was a twelvemonth since the funeral procession of the venerable clergyman, its last inhabitant, had turned from that gateway towards the village burying-ground.

  ➔ Past Perfect Tense

  ➔ The verb "had turned" is in the past perfect tense, indicating an action completed before another past action (the present time of "it was").

• The glimmering shadows that lay half asleep between the door of the house and the public highway were a kind of spiritual medium, seen through which the edifice had not quite the aspect of belonging to the material world.

  ➔ Relative Clause

  ➔ The clause "that lay half asleep" is a relative clause modifying "shadows", providing descriptive details and using "that" as the relative pronoun.

• From these quiet windows the figures of passing travellers looked too remote and dim to disturb the sense of privacy.

  ➔ Infinitive of Purpose

  ➔ The phrase "to disturb" is an infinitive of purpose, explaining why the figures looked remote and dim.

• How often, no doubt, had he paced to and fro along the avenue, attuning his meditations to the sighs and gentle murmurs and deep and solemn peals of the wind among the lofty tops of the trees!

  ➔ Rhetorical Inversion

  ➔ The structure "How often... had he" is a rhetorical inversion, placing the auxiliary verb before the subject for emphasis in a question that doesn't expect a direct answer.

• The trees possess a domestic character; they have lost the wild nature of their forest kindred, and have grown humanized by receiving the care of man as well as by contributing to his wants.

  ➔ Present Perfect Continuous Implication

  ➔ The phrase "have grown" implies an ongoing process from past to present, similar to present perfect continuous, showing gradual change over time.

• To eke out their days of labour, the carpenter stopped at his threshold, and gave utterance to the songs of the saw and the hammer, floating it down the oily and sluggish waters of the canals.

  ➔ Infinitive of Purpose with Gerund

  ➔ The infinitive "to eke out" indicates purpose, modified by gerund phrases like "sawing" and "hammering", combining these structures.

• The disease, however, had wrought a greater change in Giacomo Rappaccini’s own appearance than could be easily accounted for by the fact that he was now fourscore years old.

  ➔ Comparative Structure

  ➔ The phrase "greater change" is a comparative structure, indicating a comparison between changes, using "than" to contrast with accounted explanations.

• She let her hand rest in his for a few moments, as if by that pressure she could transfer to him the subtle essence of her feelings.

  ➔ Conditional Clause with 'as if'

  ➔ The clause "as if... feelings" is a conditional structure expressing a hypothetical or imagined action, using "as if" to indicate supposition.

• What then? I put more main strength into one blow of my sledge hammer than all that you have expended since you were a 'prentice.

  ➔ Comparative Adverbial Phrase

  ➔ The phrase "more... than" is a comparative adverbial structure, contrasting the strength in one blow with all expended efforts.